Of Doctors and Detectives
by KCS
Summary: EMPT AU. What would have happened had Holmes's return to London in 1894 been delayed and Watson had continued to help Lestrade with the Adair murder, as Granada and other dramatisations have put him at that time?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The recent rash of EMPT fics in the fandom prompted me to start putting this plot bunny down that someone sent hopping my way a good many weeks back - hope someone likes it.**

**Let me see, what else do you need to know...Oh, I am drawing slightly off the Granada series, and changes in POV are marked with a horizontal line, for now at least. Enjoy.**

_**KCS**_

* * *

"CHECK RECENT LONDON NEWS ADAIR MURDER MIGHT INTEREST YOU STOP OFFERS REMARKABLE PERSONAL OPPORTUNITIES STOP SUGGEST YOU RETURN WITH ALL SPEED STOP M"

I read the telegram for the third time in as many minutes as I stood on the verandah of my laboratory in southern France, wondering what my brother meant by the Adair murder and 'personal opportunities'.

I had to get hold of a recent London _Times_. Mycroft would not have risked contacting me unless it were urgent – I had given him strict orders to the contrary.

Perhaps – but I hardly dared speak the wild hope for fear I should curse my luck.

But – but perhaps this was the beginning of the end, the herald of a series of events that would allow for my return to England and home? Just perhaps? Dared I imagine such a foolish daydream?

"Monsieur Vernet?" I heard the voice of my fellow scientist behind me raised questioningly.

I sighed and rather unwillingly returned to our interrupted experiment with the coal-tar derivatives.

I had to get hold of the _Times_. Something was happening – I could feel it.

* * *

"Good morning, Dr. Watson." 

"Good morning, Lestrade," I replied, reaching out to shake the proffered hand the man held out to me. "What is it this morning?"

"Murder, Doctor. Very nasty bit of work too, I must say," the ferret-faced Scotland Yarder replied, looking rather ill as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the murder room.

"Messy?"

"Quite. I appreciate your coming on short notice, Doctor."

"I had no patients scheduled for this morning, at any rate; glad to get the extra work, too – thank you, Inspector," I replied quietly.

It was spring of 1894, three long years after the death of the dearest friend I had in the world. In those three years I had not even yet learnt to fully live normally with the knowledge of Holmes's death.

There were still nights when I would waken with terrified cries, thinking that we were back in some dangerous case together – or worse yet, thinking that I had made it back to the Falls only in time to see Moriarty pull him over the edge. The mind is a horrible thing when it plays tricks like that with one's sleeping hours.

But those dreams were no worse than the reality I was forced to wake up to when they were over.

And now, just last winter – a little over four months ago – my darling wife of six years had died as well, of pneumonia. Mary had been the one thing in those dreadful three years that anchored my heart and soul to this world and not the next where my dear friend had gone on before. Now that she was gone as well, I felt very little attraction indeed to this life. Very, very little indeed.

I had fallen upon some slight financial difficulties; nothing serious, but still a strain, after the expenses entailed in her passing, and so I was very glad when a chance meeting with Inspector Lestrade of the Yard one gloomy morning last February opened up an opportunity for me to become an emergency police surgeon.

My past experience with all things criminal, a passable working knowledge of medico-legal processes, and a bit of logical thinking gleaned from years of living with Sherlock Holmes made the job actually rather enjoyable, as well as putting some badly needed money into my rather tight pocket.

Lestrade was fond of calling me instead of the regular police-surgeons; partly because I had already twice given him a pointer or two that later proved to be a valuable clue in the case upon which he was working, but also because in the three years of Holmes's absence, his animosity toward my deceased friend had mellowed considerably, and he had become a very good friend to me in those dreadful months following my wife's death.

I had received his summons less than an hour ago on this drizzly spring morning and had come straight away to an extremely fashionable house in Park Lane. The Inspector met me upstairs outside the fated room, and now he was motioning me in.

A body lay on the floor covered in a very bloodstained sheet – I could tell already that the man had been shot through the head, since the blood was all on one end of the thin rectangle of fabric. Lestrade knelt beside the body and pulled back the sheet gingerly.

Even my war-hardened nerves twitched and recoiled at the sight.

"Oh, good Lord. Soft-nosed revolver bullet, Lestrade?" I asked, glad to turn my attention away from the gruesome sight to look at the Yarder's thin face.

The man looked surprised and started to fish in his pocket, pulling out an envelope.

"Quite, Doctor. How did you know?" he asked, dumping the contents into my hand.

I inspected the piece of lead, which had mushroomed out after passing through the fellow's head and making such a horrific mess.

"Only a soft-nosed bullet can do that kind of - damage, Lestrade," I said, my stomach turning a little at the mutilation.

I began to perform the necessary preliminaries on the body.

"Who was in here with him?" I asked, putting away my thermometer.

"No one, Doctor."

"What?"

"The door was locked on the inside, and he didn't come out all evening nor did he have visitors," the man told me. I stared at him.

"It's a revolver bullet, Lestrade – they aren't anywhere near accurate enough to perform that kind of shot outside of more than twelve or fifteen feet. Someone had to be in here."

"Not possible, Doctor."

"The window, then."

"It was open only a crack, and Adair was sitting in the desk chair there in front of it, facing the window. It looks as if someone fired through the window, but…"

"But that's not possible with a revolver; it's a second story room," I said, glancing out of the glass, "besides, there is all that freshly-turned earth below. Has it been disturbed?"

"No, Doctor. No traces whatsoever. The murderer must have _flown_ by the window, far as the signs tell us!"

I smiled at the Yarder's obvious bewilderment.

"All right, Lestrade, if you'll remove the body, I can make a post-mortem this afternoon," I said.

"Right. Secker, Cummings – have Adair removed to the morgue, if you please. Now, Doctor."

"What can you tell me about the case, Lestrade?" I asked, putting my gloves back on.

Lestrade detailed briefly to me about the night preceding the murder, how the door had been broken in and he was found, how there had been stacks of coins and lists of names there on the desk, and how there appeared to be no possible method and absolutely no motive. Adair had no enemies and several friends, was quiet, respectable, and honest.

It appeared to be an impossible crime.

"I do wish your friend were alive for this one, Doctor," Lestrade said softly, and I mutely agreed – Holmes would have loved the case; it presented those odd possibilities that he held so dear.

It all seemed like so long ago, so very long ago. I had sighed sadly without realizing it, and Lestrade laid an apologetic hand on my shoulder.

"I am sorry, Doctor, that was a thoughtless thing to say, especially this time of year," he said hastily, his sallow face flushing with embarrassment.

"Quite all right, Inspector," I replied, glad that my voice was not shaking as I thought it would be, "and you are quite correct – Holmes would have loved this one, eh?"

"Indeed. Well, Doctor, I shall see you this afternoon at the morgue?"

"Until then," I agreed, shaking hands with the man and exiting number 427 Park Lane.

I saw the sign for Oxford Street down the block, and without thinking about it my mind turned off of Oxford onto Baker Street. I knew just how many paces it was from the corner down to number 221…

But I shook myself violently and walked the other direction. I could not dwell on the past, for if I did, I would be overwhelmed by guilt and despair. And I dared not think about the future, for another forty or fifty years in this miserable existence was a thought that I could not stomach.

I could only live for the present, one day at a time. They seemed to get longer every 24-hour period that passed.

* * *

**_To be continued...reviews are very much welcomed!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Many thanks to all you who reviewed. Please bear with me, people - it shall get more interesting, I just have to slowly lay some groundwork first.**

* * *

"But M. Vernet, you cannot just leave in the midst of an experiment of this nature –"

"I shall return shortly, D'Albert, I merely need to get hold of some English newspapers."

"But the experiments are reaching a crucial stage point now…!"

My fellow scientist told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to leave the laboratory until the experiment was concluded. His flurry of outraged French even I had trouble following, but I got the gist of it and he was not happy with me to say the least.

Finally I acquiesced with a sigh, knowing he was right – we had come too far in the thing to leave it half-finished. Surely Mycroft's news, whatever it was, could wait another day or two.

But even as I worked, my mind began to turn longingly toward home – the home I had not seen in three years; and I threw myself into my work with more effort than before, intent upon finishing it within the day so that I could go and hear news of London.

This odd unaccustomed emotion I was feeling – was it actually…_homesickness_?

* * *

"Anything unusual, Doctor?" Lestrade asked eagerly as I walked into his office after finishing the post-mortem on the Honorable Ronald Adair. 

I felt my forehead wrinkling with puzzlement as I took the proffered seat he indicated, accepting a cup of tea from the pot on his desk.

"Well, that dreadful wound indicates that a revolver was used at very close range. But according to the facts, that is impossible, right Lestrade?" I asked, stirring cream into the cup.

He looked at me in some bewilderment.

"You saw yourself, Doctor – there was no way anyone could have got into the locked room," he responded, downing the rest of his own tea and setting the cup down with a clink.

"You are sure he had no visitors?"

"Even if he did, Doctor, he still locked the door after them – no visitor could have locked the door after killing him," the official said, his brows drawn in thought.

"It's a puzzle," I agreed, setting my empty cup down and pulling out my notebook, "Here is the full report. I'd say a .45 revolver was the most likely weapon."

"Suicide, perhaps?"

"Did you find a gun in the room?"

"No, we didn't. But how then was it done?"

"And _why_ was it done?" I countered, "apparently the man had not an enemy in the world. Robbery was not the motive, since the money still remained on the desk."

"Until we can answer those two questions, Doctor, I doubt we are going to solve this case," the man muttered dismally. "Why did _I_ land this particular murder? Why couldn't Gregson or Hopkins have been the one that got called out?"

I laughed at the man's dismal tone and expression to match.

"Just think, Lestrade – if we pull this off, though, all London will be ringing with your name!"

Lestrade scowled. "That's rather a large _if_, Doctor!"

"Well, I have to be getting back to my consulting-room," I said at last, rising to shake the man's hand, "if you think of anything else, let me know, will you?"

"If you will do the same," the inspector agreed, "and I shall let you know the date of the inquest – of course you'll have to testify as usual."

I nodded and then bade the man goodbye, walking out to the street and heading for the Kensington district.

It was rather a long walk, but I had not the change in my pocket to call a cab; and so it took me the better part two hours to get back to my house. I did not mind the walk, for I was not over-eager to go back to an empty dwelling, so full of memories that were as painful as those from Baker Street.

Even still, three years after the fact – it would be three years in just a fortnight – every corner of London held some memory of the time I spent with the world's foremost consulting detective.

A small smile quirked the corner of my mouth as I passed the restaurant we had frequented so many times in the course of one particular investigation in which we were always on the run, remembering that the French headwaiter learned not only our names during those weeks but also what we ate and drank. I reminisced with a chuckle, recalling that we would walk in at varying points during that two-week long investigation and our meal would already be laid on the table we preferred by the window.

I passed a newsstand where a young lad was hawking copies of papers and magazines, and saw with a little ripple of pride that the _Strand_ was still selling back issues of my latest story, even though it had been months since it came out.

I had finally, less than a year ago, felt in enough control to tell the world of the true facts of the _Final Problem_, and now the world knew that Sherlock Holmes had not merely been killed by a criminal mastermind – but that he had purposely given his life to rid the world of that monster, the Napoleon of Crime.

Holmes had never struck me as the openly heroic type, but that more than anything else showed me there were new depths to the man that I had not had the chance to discover.

And I would never get the chance now.

It began to drizzle again, a cold, chilling, misty rain that penetrated my overcoat, and I turned my collar up and headed for my house as fast as I could, my mood plummeting with the weather. I needed to think about something other than death, especially Holmes's death.

This Adair case, then. As I had told Lestrade, a revolver was the only weapon that could fire that kind of a bullet – but the force of how it had flattened out indicated close range. Which was impossible.

_Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

I realized again as the thought came instantly to my mind just how much Sherlock Holmes's personality and thought processes permeated my everyday existence. What would he have done? Eliminate the impossible.

Very well, it was impossible that a revolver could have been used, because no one was in the room at the time. Therefore, that meant a revolver was _not_ used.

But what then?

And would not someone have heard the shot if it were fired from outside?

I had to ask Lestrade these questions when he came by the next time.

For now, I had to get into my dark, lonely house and write up my testimony in preparation for the inquest. Not the most pleasant task in the world for a rainy, lonely April evening.

* * *

PLEASE RESPOND SHERLOCK STOP M. 

I tossed the second telegram aside impatiently – I had not the time to respond to Mycroft's pleas – he had been trying to contact me far too often as it was. One of these days Moran would catch on that he was doing so and it would bring disastrous results.

The whole reason I had not let Watson know I was alive was for that reason – I could not chance his trying to contact me and giving Moran an opening to find out where I was.

I had been running for three years, hiding as a fugitive from the nether reaches of Professor Moriarty's remaining right-hand man, and I knew he was still looking for me. He knew I was alive, but he did not know where I was.

That was why I could not chance letting anyone know where I was, not even Watson.

Watson.

My poor friend and chronicler – what was his life like now, I wondered? Had he learnt to live with the grief I had caused him, albeit for his own protection?

I had had no idea my death would affect him so – I had found that out the hard and painful way when I was on the ledge above him at the Reichenbach Falls. Having to watch him shout my name over and over, peering round him desperately in the faint hope that I was yet alive; watching as he found the so very impersonal note I left him and then look as if he were going to be ill, finally collapsing against that boulder and sobbing like he had lost a brother – I had no idea my death would affect him in that manner, and the fact had dealt a hard blow to my heart.

And I had bit my tongue til it bled, wanting so badly to call out to him, to see his amazed face light up with that joyous smile of his when I dropped down beside him, perfectly unharmed –

But from my vantage point I could see Colonel Moran on the other side of the Falls, his air-gun trained on Watson. If I so much as moved a finger, I knew that he would have shot Watson and then me.

And Moran knew that I could see him. He would have taken great pleasure in putting me through that agony before killing me. I had to remain silent, although I shall never forget those awful minutes I spent having to watch my dearest friend grieve privately before the rest of the villagers got there – much as I would like to, have tried to, they haunt my nightmares yet, even after three years.

PLEASE RESPOND SHERLOCK. M.

I would, I would, I promised him mentally – we just had to finish these experiments first; they were too volatile to leave unattended.

I re-entered the laboratory and, after a nod to my fellow-worker, went back to work, pushing all thoughts of Watson, Mycroft, and London firmly from my mind.

Sentiment did not mix well with science.

* * *

**_To be continued...thanks for reviewing!_**


	3. Chapter 3

"Thank you so much, Doctor!"

"You are quite welcome, Mrs. Fulson – just make sure little Jack has a spoonful of that syrup twice a day, mind," I said to my last patient for the day as the woman thanked me and disappeared with her sick toddler in tow.

I slumped back into my chair with a sigh when the door had closed behind her, my amiable family physician's air disappearing at once, and I glanced at the clock. Four-thirty.

Another day had gone by, at least.

I got out the notes for the Adair murder inquest that I had been working on last night and began to peruse them once more, having a very odd feeling that something was wrong with this whole crime. It just did not sit well with whatever small intuition I possessed.

I was still pondering when the maid rapped on the door and asked if I wanted to see Inspector Lestrade; and a minute later the man himself appeared in the doorway.

"No, no, Doctor – don't get up, it's quite all right. Busy day, eh?" he asked, seating himself across from me in the chair.

I nodded, leaning back in my own seat.

"What brings you over here to see me, Lestrade?"

"The inquest has been set for Friday, Doctor, at two in the afternoon," he told me.

"Gives us three days, then. Any new information for me?" I asked, lighting up a cigarette.

"Well, I have statements here from several of the young man's friends – the men he played cards with the night of the murder, as well as his ex-fiancée and her family," the official said, sliding a stack of papers over to me.

" 'Sir John Hardy, Mr. Arthur Murray, Colonel Sebastian Moran' – those were the card partners?"

"Correct. You can read their statements if you like; but in brief, Adair seemed to be in great spirits that night. He and his partner Moran had won a bit of money from Hardy and Murray, and the poor lad appeared to have left on good terms all round."

"Nothing there, then. What about the ex-fiancée?" I asked, riffling through the papers, "Edith Woodley?"

"The breaking off of the engagement was a mutual decision – neither of them hated each other and personally, Doctor, I don't think that's the answer," Lestrade said thoughtfully, "for one thing, the girl is one of those helpless types and her aging father is far too passive to murder a man in cold blood just for breaking up with his daughter."

I nodded, reading the testimonies of young Adair's three friends.

"Murray says here that Hardy had an altercation with Adair before leaving the club over the latter's frequent wins – was the amount substantial enough to become a motive, Lestrade?"

"Not to a man of Sir John's wealth, I shouldn't think," he returned, his brow wrinkling in thought as he looked at me, "and besides – the money wasn't touched in the room if you'll recall."

"Ah, yes. You know, Lestrade, perhaps it would be easier to go about this by figuring out what the weapon was that killed him," I said thoughtfully.

"You said it was a revolver, probably a .45?"

"Well, yes – but it would have to have been shot in that room. There is no way in the world a pistol shot from the street could have been accurate enough to hit him square between the eyes," I said, leaning forward in my concentration.

"I didn't think of that – it _was_ a rather good shot, now that you mention it," Lestrade replied, looking at me expectantly.

"Game for another look at the house, Lestrade?" I asked suddenly.

"Certainly – still on duty for two more hours, and I'd certainly rather spend them with you in the open air than with Gregson doing paperwork," the little official said with a grin, handing me my hat.

I also would rather have been traipsing about London, even in the rain, than sitting alone in my house with my thoughts, which were not at all pleasant anymore in my solitude.

"Come along, then, Inspector. Park Lane it is."

* * *

I slammed a test tube down in frustration, ignoring the vigorous French protests uttered across the room from me – the one or two days of work I had previously anticipated had now turned into four. Mycroft had not sent another wire, his silence clearly indicating his displeasure with me. But I had not had the time to stop, even for an hour. 

The things our society does in the name of the advancement of science.

I growled, swearing under my breath as the time dragged by. My mind was fully in concentration on the experiment at hand, but still at the back of my brain was a niggling little thought that kept threatening to bump rational logic from my thinking. I firmly squashed the thought and turned back to the experiment.

All things in their due courses. If it were extremely urgent, my brother would have wired again. Things could wait another few days, then.

* * *

"You see, Doctor – there is no way the shot could have been fired through the window with a revolver," Lestrade said, pointing up at the one in question. 

A stout bobby had gone up to the room and lit the lamp for us so that we could see in the gathering gloom. Thank heaven the rain had stopped at least.

"Yes, but it is also impossible for the shot to have been fired from inside the room. For one thing, the door was locked on the inside," I replied, "for another, the servants were home, and no one heard a shot, according to their testimonies."

"Exactly, Doctor. It is impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, Inspector. Let us use a bit of logic. It was totally not possible for the shot to have been fired from inside the house – that much is certain. The servants heard no sound, and the door was locked on the inside."

"Right."

"Then it had to have come from outside the house," I went on logically.

"But it's a revolver, Doctor – it isn't possible!"

"Let us ignore that part of it for now, Inspector. The shot, no matter what gun fired it, had to have come from outside."

"Very well, now what?"

I glanced up and down the street, thinking carefully and slowly.

"Do you remember what the weather was like that night, Inspector?"

"Umm, yes, I think it was rather mild, wasn't it?"

"Very. Balmy and sunny, not even a breath of wind."

"Well?"

"Well if it was that still, Inspector, then surely someone would have heard the shot when it was fired – what time did I say death was on my report?"

"Between eleven and twelve."

"Right. See that cab-stand down the street, Lestrade?" I asked, a sudden excitement filling me as I realized I might be on the right track.

"Of course!" the man exclaimed, slapping a hand to his forehead, "surely one of them would have heard the shot – let us go and find out!"

I smiled a little and followed the man down the sidewalk, suddenly hearing again that familiar voice in my head telling me 'the game was afoot at last'. How I wished it really was.

* * *

SHERLOCK ADAIR INQUEST IS FRIDAY STOP GET BACK HERE AT ONCE OR I SHALL DRAG YOU BACK STOP M. 

_For heaven's sake, Mycroft! _I thought miserably as I worked, looking over at the opened telegram on the side of the table, _I am working as fast as I can! You have to give me a few more days – I cannot just drop everything!_

I should have this experiment wrapped up in two days – then for Paris, to get hold of the recent London news.

Two days, that would be plenty of time. Nothing would happen in two days.

In retrospect, I could kick myself for not realizing just exactly what all could happen in two days. No experiment was more important than the events that followed my foolish decision to remain where I was until Friday.

But I had no way of knowing that at that moment. I bent once more to my work with a clear conscience, blissfully unaware of the storm of menace brewing across the Channel, about to break upon my city and the people I loved.

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**_To be continued - reviews are appreciated as always!_**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I unashamedly swiped the basic idea of the reporter scene outside the courtroom from the recent BBC adaptations starring Clive Merrison and Michael Williams, just in case anybody recognizes the situation. My apologies to Bert Coules.**

* * *

"Well, that was a capital waste of time, Watson," Lestrade grumbled, in a thoroughly ill temper.

I was deep in thought and only barely registered that he had spoken until a few moments after the fact.

"Hmm? Oh, the cab-stand. It was not a waste, Lestrade."

"It certainly was," the man averred grouchily, "supposedly one or the other of those cabbies was there all night the evening of the murder and they all swear they heard nothing that could have even possibly been a shot."

"That is why it was not a waste of time, Lestrade," I murmured distractedly, trying to piece together this puzzle that was gnawing at me.

There was something odd about it, something very odd – almost like a faint whisper of a more organized and intelligent culprit at the back of it than the usual petty murderer. I could not quite place what…

"Doctor, for heaven's sake, are you even listening to me?" the Scotland Yarder was demanding.

"I am sorry, Lestrade," I quickly apologized, coming back to the present, "I was thinking. What were you saying?"

"I asked you, how can you say it was not a waste of time, when we learned nothing?"

"Because the fact that those cabmen heard nothing is a significant clew, Lestrade," I replied.

"How?"

"I don't know," I admitted, "but I know it has to be significant somehow. It has to be."

"Confound this whole case, anyhow," the man growled, flagging down a passing cab.

"Heading back to the Yard?"

"Yes. Hop in, Doctor, I'll drop you off – it's on my way."

My pride dictated I refuse the offer – Lestrade knew of my slight financial pinch and was no doubt doing his not-so-subtle best to help; but the rain had started to drizzle its way under my collar and my discomfort pushed out my foolish pride. I got in beside him with a murmured thank-you.

"I suppose I shall see you at the inquest, Doctor?" he asked as we pulled up in front of my consulting-room.

"Yes, unless I think of anything before then," I replied, exiting the cab, "and thank you for the ride."

"Anytime, Doctor. Until the inquest, then."

I nodded and raised a hand in farewell as the driver chucked the reins and the cab moved onward.

A slight movement caught my eye across the street in the shadow of a large flowering bush, and I scrutinized for a moment the spot but saw absolutely nothing in the gloomy evening.

Then when a large blast of rain hit me in the face I shook myself, laughing at my tense, over-active imagination and reluctantly entered my dark, lonely house, hoping my maid had built a fire at least to ward off the chill in my body, not to mention my mind.

* * *

IS SOMETHING AMISS BROTHER STOP WHY ARE YOU NOT RESPONDING STOP M. 

I sighed wearily. Our experiments were drawing to an end now, thank heaven, and soon I would be able to answer Mycroft's insistent pleas for my correspondence. I would be done by the time this inquest – what was the name again? Adair? – had been performed in London.

Why the devil did my brother want me to look up some recent London murder? Mycroft always _had_ been the most impatient of elder brothers – not that I deserved a deal of patience; but still, even for him, this was rather insistent.

Two more days, and then this experiment should be under enough control that I could take a holiday and go to Paris to find out the latest news.

Until then, science over sentiment. It had to be.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Doctor. How are you?" Lestrade asked me as I seated myself beside him in the courtroom. 

"In reasonable health, thank you Lestrade," I returned absently, shuffling through the papers I held.

"You don't look it, Doctor," the man said frankly, "I think you're working yourself into the ground."

"Since when did you become a physician, Inspector?" I asked, glancing up at him with a small smile.

"Well, I –"

We were interrupted by the commencement of the inquest.

I was the first to testify, being the police surgeon involved, and I became thoroughly annoyed when my timid deductions about the type of gun used was curtly and rudely dismissed as being a theory, not a fact – now I knew how Holmes always felt when his theories were rejected by the Scotland Yarders and half-witted clients.

My mind traveled back to the times when I had loyally defended his deductions (sometimes against even my better judgment) against all odds, and the memories for the moment blocked out the sounds of tittering and hooting from the gallery above my head.

I felt my face flush in embarrassment as the judge curtly told me to stick to my medical facts and leave the theorizing to the police. As he nodded to me, I took a deep breath and continued my testimony, now just wishing for the ordeal to be over with.

Finally I was dismissed and the next witness called, the dead man's servant who had broken the door in and found Adair slumped across his desk, stone dead.

I sat down beside Lestrade, feeling that my ears were still slightly red, and he gave me a sympathetic look and started to scribble something on a page of his notebook. I was paying attention to the servant's testimony and did not notice his writing until he shoved the book in my direction.

_Insufferable git. Mr. Holmes would be proud of you, Doctor._

I cannot recall anything else the witness said after that.

* * *

"M. Vernet?" 

"Yes, D'Albert," I snapped impatiently, working feverishly to finish up this infernal experiment. Why had I even agreed to this in the first place?

Not even the scientific knowledge that would be gained by it was worth the bother. I had not the patience for this kind of thing. Odd experiments in my sitting room once in a while, for case or recreation, were one thing – this was entirely different.

I was only half-listening as my companion began to detail to me some results he had mathematically calculated about the derivative's reaction with my chemical compound. My mind was on a city across the Channel, drifting wistfully to one man in particular.

Yes, I was indeed homesick, I realized with some surprise.

* * *

The rest of the Adair inquest's testimonies consisted of the three card partners that Adair had played with; but their statements concurred exactly with what Lestrade had already told me about the case – no help there. 

Sir John Hardy had indeed had a slight quarrel with Adair before the deceased left the Bagatelle Club, but both he and Colonel Moran insisted that the argument had been resolved and they parted on good terms. Moran swore up and down, corroborated by Arthur Murray, that Adair was 'as honest as the day is long', without a single enemy in the world.

Nothing was said that would furnish us with any clue. Suicide was completely out of the question, but the murder was as inexplicable as ever.

It was not long after the end of the testimonies that the jury lost no time in bringing in a verdict of 'willful murder by person or persons unknown.'

As the gavel came down to dismiss the case, Lestrade glanced at me with a sigh.

"Well, that went as we thought it would," he moaned dismally, slinking down in his chair as the occupants of the courtroom filed past us.

I nodded, rubbing my head wearily.

"Do you get the feeling that there's something we're missing here, Doctor?"

"Yes, Inspector," I agreed, thinking hard as we stood to exit, "there is something. I am going back for another look at the house. Can you come along?"

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but no – I have to be getting back to the station. Have to see what I'm supposed to do now that the verdict's in. Dashed boring routine, if I am any judge. Probably have to question everyone again, that sort of thing."

We had exited the courtroom and were immediately accosted by a flock of over-eager newspaper reporters, all shouting for us to give them statements for their different rags.

I was thoroughly annoyed, and Lestrade was near-apoplectic by the time we had fought our way partially through them.

"I say, Inspector!"

"Inspector Lestrade, just one statement for the _Standard_?"

"Dr. Watson, have you any theories?"

"Inspector, have you found the murder weapon yet?"

"Do ye have a motive yet?"

"Dr. Watson, how do you think Mr. Holmes would have investigated this case, sir?"

I felt my face blanch at that last upstart's insensitive question and Lestrade grabbed my arm, sending the man a scathing glare and nearly shoving our way through the clamour.

"Sorry about that, Doctor," he gasped at last as we jumped into a cab to escape the pandemonium, "deucedly idiotic fool!"

I had to smile at the man's defense of me – quite a pleasant feeling, having a friend defend me from some harm, slight though it really was.

But the reporter's unthinking words rang still in my mind as Lestrade dropped me off near Park Lane and continued back to the police station.

How _would_ Holmes have investigated this case? He would so have loved its quirks and unusual features, I reflected as I walked along.

How I wished I were walking beside him, preparatory to successfully concluding this abstruse case. But I had to live in reality.

I would never have that chance again.

* * *

**_To be continued...thanks to all you who have reviewed!_**


	5. Chapter 5

SHERLOCK INQUEST RESULTS IN RECENT TIMES STOP DO WISH YOU WOULD PAY ATTENTION STOP NOTICE WHO POLICE SURGEON IS IN ADAIR CASE STOP THINK THAT IS RATHER RISKY STOP M.

I scowled as I threw together a few things into a carpetbag, preparatory to my journey to Paris. I had at last finished my experiment, leaving the rest of the calculations in D'Albert's capable hands.

I reread my brother's message while absently scribbling out a reply of my own. Notice who the police surgeon was? Why should I care about who the surgeon was? All the police surgeons I remembered from the Yard were bigger imbeciles than the Inspectors themselves.

Mycroft was being cryptic, again. Which I supposed was as well, considering that Moran might still be trying to track me. I wished my brother would not contact me at all; it was far too dangerous.

Something about his persistence bothered me, however, and I had a distinctly uneasy feeling that kept rising within me as I packed for a few days just in case I needed to stay in Paris to track down a lead.

Something was not right.

* * *

I walked along in deep thought after Lestrade had let me off on Park Lane, trying to piece together this case as I thought Sherlock Holmes might have done. 

I reached 427 Park Lane and saw the crowd gathered outside, listening to some insufferable amateur drone on about his theory regarding the murder – his observations seemed to me altogether absurd, and a small smile played round my mouth as I thought of how Holmes would have ripped the idea full of holes.

Then I sobered once again with the still-sickening realization that I would never hear him do such a thing again, not in this life.

I shook myself sternly, willing my mind and my emotions to come back to this world, and I looked round at the scene.

The house was a two-story residence in a long block of rather stately dwellings, Adair's room being the one in front of me on the second floor. A revolver could not possibly have fired with that accuracy over such a distance.

But there had been no report of a shot, and no one could have gotten up to that window without leaving tracks – and it did not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that there were absolutely none.

Wait a moment – I was going about this the wrong way.

Instead of focusing on what we could _not_ find, I should be focusing on what we _could_ find.

Where had the murderer stood to fire the shot?

I glanced round at the scene. The other side of Park Lane, where I was standing, was comprised of another row of houses, separated here and there by narrow alleys.

But there was no alley across from 427.

And Adair had been shot directly head-on, in the centre of his forehead.

That meant – that meant he had to have been shot by someone in that house opposite; it was the only possible location! And I could see the placard in the window that said the residence had been closed up, condemned because of some problem with the drains.

That _had _to be it!

Now, how was I going to get into the house? I could either go fetch Lestrade and try to convince him to go through the rigmarole of getting a search warrant, or…

…or I could just head down the alley close to it and break in the back way, hoping no one would see me. I could not wait until dark, because then the light I would be searching by would be seen by the bobby on the beat.

Why not?

I had not had an adventure in three years – I wanted to see how much I remembered.

I decided to hop back to my house and find my burglary kit – the one Holmes had given me for Christmas back in the early days of our association. I had thought at the time that the odd fellow was just being a prankster, but I soon realized just how often I needed and used the implements he had put together for me throughout our association.

And if I were right, perhaps I should find something in that deserted house that would give us a clue as to who murdered Ronald Adair.

I set off down the street, throwing a disgusted glance behind me at that man in front of the fatal house - and once again thought I saw a shadow duck into an alley behind me. but when I looked again, more than once in the next several minutes, I saw I had been mistaken.

Holmes would so have laughed at my overly dramatic imagination.

* * *

HAVE FINISHED WORK AT LAST STOP AM EN ROUTE TO PARIS STOP DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CONTACT FURTHER TOO DANGEROUS STOP S.

* * *

I pocketed the kit after changing into a dark suit, remembering Holmes's admonishment in an earlier case to always wear black when on a job like this – not only did one blend into the shadows, but half the men in London wore black and one's description would match any number of people if one were seen. 

I briefly wondered what he would think of this, and if I were even upon the right track – then I set out once more for Park Lane, taking the back street behind the house I wanted and entering through a tiny brick-strewn courtyard.

It was late afternoon, and no one was about on such a drizzly spring day. I was now grateful for the rain, for it meant a lack of possible witnesses to my breaking into the house.

I made my way unseen in the shadows cast by the buildings to the back door of the place, stopping for a moment to catch my breath and look round for any signs that I had been seen. I saw and heard nothing save the pattering of rain upon the pavement.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my excited heart's racing, and pulled out the assorted lock-picks Holmes had taught me to use with so much pride those many years ago.

As I worked on the flimsy lock of the back door, I could not help but grin at the remembrance of the many times he made me practice on the door of the sitting room – he had been so proud of me when I finally got it open that first time!

A soft sense of nostalgia swept over me, and I swallowed hard and continued my work. The lock was not very complicated, and within five minutes I had made it inside and closed the door.

Taking care to not show myself to anyone possibly passing by in the street, I made my way to the front room, where I believed the murderer must have shot from. I made sure to stay on the outside edges of the room so as not to be visible from the road and began to look round.

That front window was directly opposite Adair's house – it must have been the one through which the shot was fired.

I could see no signs of the cartridge case from the bullet – pity. But the man who was clever enough to pull this crime off would hardly have been foolish enough to leave a cartridge case lying about, even in a deserted house.

I knelt beside the window, peeking out cautiously to ensure no one was looking at the house oddly, and then turned my attention to the floor, wishing for my late friend's powers of observation – he no doubt could have deduced everything possible from the marks in the dust.

There had obviously been someone here, even my untrained eyes could perceive that. In front of the low window was a long smudge, roughly five feet long, where the dust had been disturbed recently. And at the end of it, closest the window, were two even marks in the dust, side by side and the same size.

No other traces – the murderer had made sure to clean up after himself.

I took out a page of my notebook and scribbled a hasty diagram and drawing of what the smudges looked like – they did not look as if a man had been kneeling or even crouching. Odd, very odd.

But this window was so low to the ground, I realized after kneeling in front of it, that if a man were wanting to aim a gun at the Adair's room, he would have had to be nearly prone on the floor like we had done in my army days in Afghanistan; the sharp-shooters lying on their stomachs and aiming their rifles upwards in that prostrate position.

But no rifle could fire a soft-nosed revolver bullet.

I got up from the ground, dusting myself off, my mind churning with deep thought.

Someone had been in here, true – but I had no evidence at all, nothing that we had not already known before.

What could possibly be the answer?

Whoever the man, or woman I supposed, was, they fired the gun from here. But what gun? No matter what we discovered, the inescapable fact remained that no revolver could have made such a shot that accurately.

And, there had been no evidence that anyone had heard a shot that night. No one had heard anything, and yet a shot had been fired and a man had been murdered.

I exited the house silently and without mishap, my mind racing a thousand miles a minute. It was nearing seven o'clock – Lestrade got off at eight. I would go see him and tell him what I had discovered. Perhaps between the two of us we could find some answers to this puzzle.

* * *

YOU ARE AN IDIOT SHERLOCK STOP GET BACK TO LONDON AT ONCE STOP M. 

I had received my brother's latest missive just before boarding the train for Paris, and it annoyed me to no end. Why the deuce was he so insistent about my finding the facts of this confounded murder case? And why was he so insistent that I return to London on the instant?

I shook my head with a growl, settling back into my seat – I had a compartment to myself, for it was nearly one o'clock on this early Saturday morning – and lit up my pipe, attempting to calm my keyed-up nerves.

I could feel, could sense, some underlying tone in my brother's missives that made me begin to wonder if I should have dropped everything, experiment or no experiment, and obeyed his summons.

I did not know then just how very much I would come to regret not heeding him.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: For all you wonderful people who want to give Holmes a swift kick in the pants right now, I am sorry to tell you there's already a line. Thanks for the reviews!**

* * *

Late the next afternoon, I was in Paris. Without stopping to find a hotel or anything else, I headed for the large library in the educational district of the City of Lights, intent upon discovering what the deuce my brother had been so adamant about regarding this Adair murder case.

Within the hour, I was immersed in a pile of back issues of the London _Times_, pawing through the enormous stack in an effort to find the newer ones – but it was hard going, for every paper I saw I wanted deep down to sit and peruse, to glance over the agony columns and the criminal news, to look at the obituaries and find out what had happened of note throughout my absence.

I did not realize until now how much I had missed my London – each paper seemed to beckon invitingly with a story that was just waiting for me to devour, reminding me of home.

I finally succumbed to the siren song of the London papers and looked at the 1894 New Year's Day edition, treating myself to one long read about my home before trying to discover what had my brother so up in arms.

I read with interest the news sections, skipping over the financial section and turning to the agony columns with eagerness, skimming them avidly as I had not had a chance to do in so long. I alternately chuckled, smirked, and made deductions about the various entries until I reached the end, sighing with nostalgic regret.

I briefly perused the criminal news – not much around the holiday season, evidently; I supposed that even criminals celebrated the season of goodwill to some extent – and briefly glanced over the obituary column.

Then suddenly a familiar name caught my eye, an all-too-familiar name, and I stared at the tiny paragraph of black print, all other sounds and movements round me forgotten in the sudden icy weight that had gripped my heart.

_December 31, 1893, Mary Morstan Watson?_

Why – why had I not found out about this? Why –

Oh, dear heaven.

I had been in Egypt at the time. Mycroft had said he tried to contact me for weeks after I left Tibet and some of his communications must not have come through, forwarded to me when I finally reached France.

For four months now, Watson had been left alone in the world, completely alone. And I had not known it until just now.

The paper fell from my nerveless hands as the sickening realization hit me of what he had to have gone through – just in the midst of the holiday season, too. If I had only known...

I rested my chin in my cupped hand, staring at the tiny paragraph of block print in that paper, all my happy thoughts of London and home forgotten with this sickening knowledge of the heartache my poor friend had had to endure.

Fate had been cruel to him – I decided at that moment that, Moran or no, I had to get back to London. To blazes with Mycroft's Adair murder, I had to get back for Watson's sake. It had been too long already.

With that resolve firmly in place, I refolded the paper and flipped the stack over to the more recent papers, the most recent one being this morning's.

I saw that the Adair murder had made the second page, no less, and started to eagerly read the account, wondering how many of the florid details were true.

But halfway down, two names caught my eye.

Watson, a police surgeon? When had he taken up that profession? _He_ was the police surgeon for the Adair murder? Was that why Mycroft had been so adamant that I look up the accounts? My brother had mentioned for me specifically to find out who the surgeon was – that had to be why.

Bu the second name grabbed my attention even more, for an entirely different reason.

_That was it!_

That was why Mycroft had been so anxious for me to read this account! I had no time to waste whatsoever – I was heading straight back to the station to catch the next train to Grenoble, to see my old friend Oscar Meurnier.

In about ten seconds, my formidable mind had cogitated a plan. One that should put me back in London within the week.

I prayed that Watson would hold up all right until then, the dear fellow. My Watson was stalwart, I knew it – he would stay strong until I could get back.

And I would lose no time in doing so.

* * *

"You _**what**_, Doctor?" 

"Oh, really, Lestrade, do you know how many times Holmes and I burgled places over the course of our association?"

"You can't do that!"

"I just _did._"

Lestrade slumped back in his chair limply and glared feebly at me.

"You're lucky the bobby on the beat didn't see you."

"I am afraid I inherited Sherlock Holmes's skepticism concerning the efficiency of the London constabulary, Inspector," I said, seating myself across the desk from the Yarder, "I knew I would not get caught."

The official shook his head.

"No wonder Mr. Holmes always got results that were beyond us," he grumbled, scooting his chair up to look at the crude drawing I had made of the marks in the dust.

"That wasn't the only reason," I replied dryly.

"I see you've inherited his caustic sarcasm, as well, Doctor!"

I laughed lightly and shoved the paper at him.

"Well, what about it?"

"It is just odd, Lestrade. Most men are not used to firing a gun lying prone on the floor, that is all."

"Is it really that difficult?"

"Well, no – not with a rifle. But it can't be done well with a revolver, definitely," I responded, frowning in concentration, "and still, it is unusual."

"So the murder weapon has to be a rifle."

"Not necessarily."

"Confound it, Doctor – you're as cryptic as your late friend!"

I winced at the man's poor choice of words, and he instantly apologized, his irritation leaving him on the instant. I waved off the apology and went on.

"It can't be a revolver, but it also cannot be a rifle, Lestrade – someone would have been sure to have heard a rifle shot, would they not?" I asked.

"Well…yes, Doctor. Then what the devil was used?"

"I have no idea, but I certainly am going to find out," I said pensively.

The little official sighed.

"It's impossible, Doctor. Just absolutely impossible."

* * *

"M. Vernet! It has been so long!" 

"How are you, Meurnier?"

"Very well indeed, Monsieur, very well. What brings you back to see old Oscar this fine afternoon?"

I sat opposite the elderly artist with a small smile at his exuberance. I had met the man upon my first flight from Switzerland, when I had originally ended up right after the Falls in Florence.

I had moved through France with fair rapidity, trying to cover a complicated trail to throw off any pursuers Moran might have set upon me after I lost him and that infernal air-gun over the mountains in the dark.

After a few days, I had passed through Grenoble, very down on my luck – the money I had requested from Mycroft had not yet arrived, and the man had been very kind to me after I spent three days locating some artwork of his that had been stolen in the city.

_"You look troubled, M. Vernet," he had said as I prepared to move onward – I knew not where._

_"Slightly," I admitted, my mind back in London, where I knew Watson would now be relaying the news of my death to a flock of reporters and police. _

_I was worried about him – he had taken the news of my death much, much harder than I had thought he would, and according to Mycroft's last wire, he looked absolutely close to a complete nervous collapse. I could only pray that he would be all right with the support of his wife until things calmed down enough for me to be able to contact him._

_Whenever that might be._

_"Can I help at all?" Meurnier asked as I prepared to be off._

_"You already have, Monsieur," I replied, jerking back to the present with a shock, "thank you very much."_

_"Good luck and Godspeed to you then," the elderly artist replied, "and if I can ever be of assistance to you someday, you have but to ask."_

_"Many thanks, M. Meurnier. Au revoir, then?"_

_The man's eyes crinkled in a smile. "Until we meet again."_

" Meurnier, I am in dire need of your artistic help."

* * *

**_To be continued...anyone else think that Mycroft should beat the devil out of his infuriating younger brother?_**


	7. Chapter 7

_"It's impossible, Doctor. Just absolutely impossible."_

Lestrade's puzzled words kept playing over and over in my mind as I walked back toward Park Lane. The rain had stopped at last, for which I was grateful since it was a rather long walk; but my mind was not on the change in weather but upon the case at hand.

_Eliminate the impossible, Watson._

Very well then.

It was impossible that the shot had been fired from inside the house. We had already established that fact.

It was also impossible for a revolver to have shot from the house opposite with that kind of accuracy.

It was also impossible that a rifle, or any type of normal gun for that matter, could have been used – for someone would have heard the report.

_Eliminate the impossible._

Therefore, none of the normal guns I and the police were acquainted with had been used.

_Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

What other kind of gun remained…

Wait.

Wait a moment.

_That was it!

* * *

_

"You must hold still, M. Vernet, or I cannot finish the proportions correctly!"

I was wriggling with impatience – I had been posing for this bust for seven hours now, and Meurnier was taking his usual infernally painstaking time with it.

"It needs not be perfect, M. Meurnier, it will only be used in silhouette," I said, trying to rein in my impatience. It was now Saturday evening, the day after the inquest.

As I sat, trying to hold still, my mind drifted back to the newspaper and the Adair murder. What was Watson doing now?

* * *

I stood across the street from 427 Park Lane, my mind whirling with the staggering deduction I had just come up with. 

It had been that newsboy back at the corner with his magazines, one of them being the _Strand_ containing the _Final Problem,_ that had triggered the reaction in my mind, and the thing had unfolded and made perfect sense as easily as two makes two.

_"Do you have any objection to my closing your window-shutters?"_

_"None in the least. Holmes, what are you afraid of?"_

_"Air-guns."_

_"Air-guns?"_

Air-guns.

An air-gun was relatively noiseless.

_Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

It had been an air-gun.

That would explain the marks in the dust in the front room of the condemned house – an air-gun was the size of a rifle. That would explain the prostrate figure and how the shot was fired.

I knew I was right. I _had_ to be right.

At the sudden thrill that shot through me, I suddenly realized how ecstatic Holmes felt upon realizing some important fact in the midst of a case – no longer was it a mystery to me why his moods would swing so drastically upon the realization of the solution.

I did not have the solution, but I had solved the problem of method. Now only remained the motive, and who had done the deed.

But for now, I could go home and get a well-deserved night's sleep – the events of the day had completely worn me out, and I would be very glad of a rest. I should go and see Lestrade about the air-gun on the morrow.

I turned my steps toward Kensington, only wishing I could hear the voice of my dear friend congratulating me on my feeble little deductive efforts.

* * *

"How much longer, Meurnier?" 

"Maybe, three, four hours, M. Vernet."

Three or four hours! The boat to Dover did not run on Sundays – I would not be able to get across the Channel until Monday morning!

I swore under my breath in frustration, cursing myself for not responding to Mycroft's first messages. No scientific experiment was worth causing more harm by the day to Watson's sensitive nature.

Monday it would have to be, though, for reasons beyond my control.

Monday.

* * *

Saturday morning broke clear and sunny at last, the rain having finally decided to take itself away for a holiday, albeit it would probably be a short one. 

I was detained in the morning by several patients that I had not been able to see because of the inquest yesterday and that had been glad to reschedule for Saturday, and so it was after noon when I finally showed the last one out of my office.

I leaned back with a sigh, my mind at once reverting to the new information I had deduced from the facts of the Adair murder.

Odd, how a chance glimpse of my story in the _Strand_ had instigated that train of thought to the air-gun. But it made perfect logical sense –

Except for one thing. Air-guns did not fire revolver bullets.

At least, not in my experience.

My brow furrowed as I pondered the problem. An air-gun made sense, but not one that fired soft-nosed revolver bullets.

I would have to tackle this problem from another angle.

I got up and grabbed my copy of _Who's Who_, idly flipping through the pages to find the girl Adair was to marry, Adair himself, his family, and the three men he played cards with, just to see if there were any noteworthy facts about them.

I noted absently that Sir John Hardy had Scottish ancestry as I did, and that Moran had served in Her Majesty's Indian Army – had served close to some of the areas I had actually been in, and that the ex-fiancée's family was not as wealthy as Adair's.

Nothing of interest.

But I had this odd feeling, that one of the people in that courtroom yesterday was the one who had killed Adair. I mean, the obvious planning involved in the murder indicated that someone knew him and his habits well. And though Adair supposedly had no enemies, he also had few friends.

I abstractedly looked again at the information about the three card partners – Murray, Moran, and Hardy. Nothing out of the ordinary in the columns of _Who's Who_, at any rate.

Surely one of them had done it?

Half a moment. There was one way, one sure way, to find out if any of them had a criminal bent.

The ability to pull off a crime such as this indicated a definite slant toward evil, and I doubted it was the first time such a crime had been committed by whoever was the murderer. He had to have done something earlier in time, at some point – and there was also the matter of the odd air-gun.

And if that were so, then only one man in London would have been able to deduce the existence of such a strange and unique weapon, and only that man would have been able to deduce that the man were dangerous; even if he had not had proof, he still would have known the hidden potential for crime.

Only one man had known criminals well enough to know those things.

But I was not really looking forward to paying the old home of that one man a visit – even after three years, the ghosts of time gone by still seemed to haunt the place as well as paying spectral visits to my nightmares.

But Holmes had said once that no ghosts need apply to this kind of work – and I would behave as he would.

It was time to pay a visit to Baker Street and go through some of the late Sherlock Holmes's files.

* * *

HAVE BEEN WATCHING DOCTOR STOP BELIEVE HE MIGHT HAVE STUMBLED UPON PART OR ALL OF TRUTH STOP HAVE NOTICED MAN FOLLOWING HIM STOP FELLOW IS NOT ONE OF MY SPIES STOP SUSPECT MORAN MEANS HIM HARM IF HE GETS TOO NEAR TRUTH STOP FOR THE LOVE OF HEAVEN MAKE HASTE BROTHER STOP M. 

I stared at the paper in front of me – Watson, getting too close to the truth? What was he doing?! Why had he not dropped such a volatile case when the inquest closed? Was Lestrade putting him up to this? I would kill them both!

I knew without a doubt that Colonel Moran was the most dangerous man in London – in all England – and the thought of what he would do if somehow Watson stumbled upon the truth turned me absolutely sick inside.

"Meurnier, what time does the last train for Paris leave?" I asked suddenly, crumpling up the telegram and stuffing it into my pocket.

"It just left, M. Vernet," the man said, glancing up from his sculpting my head in wax, "you missed it by a half hour. But this bust is not yet done, Monsieur – give me an hour."

I missed it by a half hour. And now I could not cross the Channel until Monday.

I prayed that the sick feeling in my stomach was only nerves and not a premonition.

MISSED CHANNEL BOAT STOP CANNOT ARRIVE LONDON UNTIL MONDAY AFTERNOON STOP IF YOU LOVE ME GUARD WATSON STOP S.

* * *

**_To be continued - please review!_**


	8. Chapter 8

I have to admit that I was not looking forward to this visit to 221b Baker Street – I had not been back since late May of '91, when Mrs. Hudson had told me I could come up and take a memento of some kind from the room if I wished.

I had helped her to hang the black drapes beside the picture of the Reichenbach Falls that hung on the wall over the mantel, and then she had withdrawn tactfully, her eyes brimming with tears that had mirrored my own.

I had not been able to stand the room much longer – taking only the one photograph of Holmes and myself that we had ever had occasion to take, while on some business on the Continent in the mid-80s, some assignment for one of the reigning houses of Europe. At one of the social gatherings there had been a photographer that had snapped an impromptu picture of us and had given it to us, and it had always stood upon Holmes's desk.

I had taken the photograph – I had it yet in my consulting room on my desk – and had done my best to comfort Mrs. Hudson. And then I had left, intending never to return to the place, for the memories it held were too many and too painful.

But in the interest of justice, I would have to do so now.

I swallowed hard as I turned off of Oxford Street onto Baker Street – I had for three years avoided the street whenever possible, not wanting to see the familiar landscape; but the sharp pain of loss had now dulled in three years to just a very hollow ache. I could stand to at least see the place now.

I stopped in front of number 221, looking up at the shaded windows of the sitting room for one moment before unlocking the door with the key Mrs. Hudson had insisted I keep with me even after my marriage. I had never given it back.

The good lady appeared to be out, as she did not answer my tentative calls, but I knew that Mycroft Holmes had said that he wished his brother's things to be preserved exactly as they had been left by him, after the damage from the arson attack in '91 had been repaired.

I thought it a bit morbid at the time, but now I was glad of the fact, for I needed to be able to find what I wanted.

I took a deep breath, desperately fighting the host of memories that assaulted my mind and clouded my perception for a moment, finally succeeding in pulling my emotions under a tight rein and pushing all thoughts of the past from my mind.

And I mounted the – how many? Seventeen? – steps with a clenched jaw and a mostly steady mind, which was not a small accomplishment considering the circumstances.

* * *

"M. Vernet?" 

I stopped my restless pacing and turned as my artist friend entered the small bedroom with a lamp and his creation. He demonstrated to me how the silhouette would work, throwing the shadow at the right angle on the blind and waiting for my final approval.

It appeared to be perfect, and I thanked the good man profusely before he withdrew for the night.

Meurnier had been gracious enough to allow me to stay with him overnight until I could hop the first train to Paris tomorrow morning and then to Calais. I would then have a twelve hour wait before the boat left for Dover on Monday at ten.

I fervently hoped that whatever Moran, and Watson for that matter, were doing, that they would observe the day of rest and not proceed further in this business.

* * *

I took a deep breath and opened the door of the old sitting room, bracing myself for the rush of memories I knew would follow my entrance. 

And they did follow, flooding in upon me like a torrent. I spent a good five minutes just looking about me, tears stinging the back of my eyes, until I was able to get a grip on myself and start looking for the information I came for.

Holmes's files were not in as much disarray as I had anticipated, and it took me not a long time to locate the books I wanted. The case files – over ten years' worth – would take me far too long to go through, and I would never be able to find what I was looking for.

No, his immense common-place books were the things I needed to see.

I pulled out the H and M volumes and stood there by the table, flipping carefully and slowly through the pages.

I had personally suspected Sir John Hardy, for he was the only one who appeared to have borne Adair any grudge, despite the fact that the argument at the Bagatelle was supposedly resolved before Adair left – but there was absolutely nothing in Holmes's commonplace book about the man, not even an innocuous news article.

I set the book down with a sigh and turned to the M's, believing myself to be entirely on the wrong track now. Of course, what had I been thinking – I was no Sherlock Holmes; how could I have thought that my feeble deductions could possibly have been…

I froze, staring at the page I had just come across.

No.

* * *

I paced up and down the small room in Meurnier's garret apartment, nearly banging my head on the low ceiling. I could not sit still – the wait was killing me. 

Why had I not heeded Mycroft's summons when it had first arrived? I could have been in London yesterday had I done so – and I could then get Moran put safely behind bars and get Watson out of danger myself.

Mycroft's men that had been keeping an eye on him were all well and good, but Watson's safety was too important to trust to anyone other than myself.

I paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, trying to push down that growing feeling of deep unease.

I was not a believer in intuition or psychic sense – but after being immersed in the criminal world for so long one develops a sort of sixth sense for danger, and all my sensors were up, flying high and tense.

Watson was heading straight for trouble – Mycroft's line about seeing someone following him seemed to bear out that theory. Moran was watching his every move.

_Please, Watson, do not do anything foolish! I shall be there on Monday!

* * *

_

I stared at the page in question – I had been looking for Murray and had come across an entry about Sebastian Moran instead. It was an apparently harmless clipping out of some published work, detailing the man's distinguished Eton and Oxford education and then his outstanding military career – the man appeared to be a perfectly impeccable soldier.

But out to the side of the article, in my late friend's precise, neat handwriting, was the terse line:

_The second most dangerous man in London._

On a whim, I flipped through the book until I found an article with Moriarty's name – and sure enough, there was Holmes's handwriting again - he habitually made footnotes in these books, I knew full well.

_The most dangerous man in London._

Moriarty had been the most dangerous.

Moran, Colonel Sebastian Moran, had been the second.

The man who I had just yesterday seen testify at the trial – he had to have been Moriarty's right-hand man! Holmes had made this book long ago – he had to have known about Moran while he was trailing the Moriarty gang!

Why had the man not been arrested with the gang three years ago?

I had been deathly ill following the horrible events of Reichenbach, and in consequence by the time I regained my full health the Moriarty trial had already been dealt with. There had been nary a whisper about this man as far as my limited knowledge of the matter could remember.

Moriarty must have been sure to fence him round with safeguards so that, in the event the Master failed in his plans to thwart Holmes, then the Lieutenant could do so.

I shivered with the thought that I had been sitting only ten feet away from Moriarty's chief of staff yesterday in that courtroom.

I had it.

The man and the method – surely with Moriarty's connections, he could have come up with an air-gun to fire a revolver bullet. The man's web, according to Holmes, had extended into all London, England, and even Europe. It would have been no large matter for the Napoleon of Crime to come up with an air-gun such as that – who would suspect revolver bullets to be fired from a silent rifle? It would have been the perfect weapon for the perfect crime.

And the prostrate form on the floor of the house opposite the Adair's - Moran was an Indian tiger hunter; of course he would be used to shooting accurately from that position! And he was a crack shot, according to this article; that explained how he could get Adair squarely in the forehead.

It explained everything.

Even after his death, Sherlock Holmes was helping to solve the insoluble mysteries of the London criminal. I set the book down on the table with a slightly unsteady hand.

As I looked round me at the sitting room with my teeth clenched against the memories still bombarding my senses, I realized I had a chance to avenge my friend's death.

This man, Moran – his master had killed my friend. I could see justice done by finding a way to obtain proof that Moran killed Adair, bringing the fellow to the gallows.

I would devote all my energies to that task. Tonight. I would go and see Lestrade at once.

* * *

Six steps to the window, five steps to the bed, five steps to the bureau, and three back to the door. Six, five, five, three. 

The longer I paced, the more worried I grew. It was now after midnight, and I was far too distraught to sleep – I was growing more worried by the minute. Mycroft's words rang again and again in my head, and I prayed desperately that he would keep watch to guard Watson against Moran.

I was helpless. And I never have liked being helpless.

_Six, five, five, three. Six, five, five, three._

_

* * *

_

**_To be continued - groundwork is nearly finished now!_**


	9. Chapter 9

I distractedly fastened the catch on the Gladstone bag that held that wax bust of myself and haphazardly stuffed the rest of my belongings into my valise. At last, at long last, I could be moving on. And not a minute too soon.

My train for Paris left in less than an hour, and the trap was already waiting at the door of Mernier's villa to take me to the railway station. This time tomorrow, I would be on the boat for Dover.

I heard a sharp rapping at the door.

"M. Vernet? There is a telegram for you!"

"Come in, M. Meurnier," I called, snapping shut the lock on my valise.

The man handed the paper to me and I impatiently slit the envelope – I really did wish Mycroft would cease to contact me.

I pulled the yellow form out of the envelope and read it, feeling my face suddenly drain of every vestige of color.

SHERLOCK GET BACK HERE WITHOUT DELAY STOP MY GUARD TOO LATE STOP DOCTOR DISAPPEARED LAST NIGHT NO TRACES STOP LESTRADE COMPLETELY IN THE DARK STOP LOSE NO TIME IN RETURN STOP MY APOLOGIES BROTHER STOP M.

"M. Vernet! Are you all right? M. Vernet!"

* * *

I shook my head dizzily, trying to get rid of the fog that surrounded my muddled mind – what the devil had happened to me? 

I could not get my vision to focus and so I gave up, trying to concentrate instead upon focusing my brain.

I remembered leaving 221b after copying down the information about Moran into my pocket notebook, intending to get to the Yard at once and tell Lestrade what I had found. I had no money for a cab, and so I had set off at a walk.

Then as I passed an alley – what had happened then?

From the continued muzzy side-effects in my mind and body, I suspected chloroform. For a moment my mind was a blank, and then I remembered – yes, I had been yanked abruptly into the alley and though I had fought desperately (landing some nicely-placed blows, too, judging by the enraged curses around me) I had been overpowered and I now remembered that sickly smell of the chloroformed handkerchief being forced against my nose and mouth.

I had always hated the smell, even from a distance when I had to use it upon patients – I had only once before been on the receiving end of the drug and I remembered now why I despised it so.

I struggled to open my eyes, knowing that something was deathly wrong and I needed to find out what as quickly as possible, but my eyelids were too heavy and I again stopped trying, instead focusing on my other senses.

I could not move my arms and legs – I must be secured in some fashion. I could also hear nothing immediately around me; then I was alone or at least was far enough away from anything for it to be silent. But I could still hear faint street noise – a house then?

I tried once again to open my eyes and this time managed it – I was indeed in a house. But a deserted or condemned one, by the look of things.

Long swooping cobwebs covered everything, a broken door hung off its hinges, and wallpaper seemed to be peeling everywhere from the walls. The one window was covered in a thick layer of dust, so that only a dingy, watery light came filtering through.

I was tied securely to a chair in the corner of the room, and there was no other occupant of the place.

It took no great deductions to perceive that Colonel Moran had to have been watching me, after he found out I was the police surgeon at the trial. Those times when I thought I had seen a man following me – there _had_ been one. He had been keeping an eye on me, and when I went to Baker Street, he probably realized the purpose for my errand.

And the chief of the late Professor Moriarty's staff was obviously no amateur at getting rid of people who were in his way – as was evidenced by that unfortunate young man's neat and silent demise last week.

I repressed a shiver at the thought – what was going to happen to me now that Moran had me? I was all alone now; there was no Sherlock Holmes this time to think our way out of a mess as he had always done before.

I had to go it alone. Completely alone.

* * *

AM ON MY WAY MYCROFT STOP CANNOT GET THERE UNTIL MONDAY AFTERNOON STOP FOR THE LOVE OF HEAVEN DO SOMETHING STOP WILL COME STRAIGHT TO PALL MALL MONDAY STOP FIND HIM PLEASE BROTHER STOP S. 

I had gone through an entire pouch of tobacco as I nervously smoked one pipe after another on the train to Paris, my nerves keyed up to the highest possible extremity.

Watson had to have found out something. He had to have gotten too close to the truth, and Moran realized it. That was the only logical explanation. And Moran had to have grabbed Watson immediately after he had found out the information if Watson had not had time to make it to Lestrade to inform him of what he had discovered.

But – why abduct Watson instead of killing him, as Moran had murdered Adair?

I was wholly, absolutely glad he had _not_ killed him – I thanked God above for it – but it did not seem to jibe with what I knew of Moriarty's chief lieutenant. Moriarty's policy, and that which he had enforced with his staff, was immediate, unconditional removal of any threat to his organization.

Why had Moran not just killed Watson as he did Adair?

Either thought turned me sick inside, and I made my way out of the tiny railway compartment for some air. I could only pray that the horrid scenarios my overactive mind was cogitating were not what was really happening to my dearest friend.

* * *

I had spent a fruitless hour trying to find a way to loosen my hands, feeling round the back of the chair with partially numb fingers for a splinter or a sharp edge and finding none. The ropes that bound me to the rough chair were tight but not cruelly tight, but there was absolutely no chance of their snapping or loosening. 

My mind was racing, trying to deduce with whatever little abilities I had where I was. The light that shone through the dirt-caked window was now dimming steadily – night was falling. I could hear the faint sounds of cabs going by, so I must be in the front room of a house still in London.

But through the dilapidated door I could barely see the balustrade of an ancient staircase – I was in an upstairs room that faced a street, then.

But what street? I could see nothing through the filthy window, so caked with dust it was. I sighed and settled back limply in my chair, worn out with trying to free myself.

Why had Moran just captured me – why had he not simply shot me like he had Ronald Adair? It would certainly have been easier, and required fewer men to be in on the plot. Why had he kept me alive? It was not logical at all.

My mind turned back to Lestrade, the only man who knew that I was working on the case. When would he realize something was wrong? And if he did realize, would he be able to find me?

The man had become a good friend, but I knew full well that he was no mental match for this Colonel Moran. The old tiger-hunter would have covered his tracks carefully, and Lestrade was not the brightest man I had ever met. He was no fool, but I doubted he would be able to find me.

I had only stumbled upon the truth after finding the information in Sherlock Holmes's old files – Lestrade had no such previous knowledge. I could not count upon him to help me.

I had to get out of this on my own. If I _did_ get out.

I was suddenly snapped to full alertness by the sound of footsteps on the old and groaning stairs.

Either Moran or one of his men was returning to see me.

* * *

WIRE ANY NEWS TO CALAIS CHANNEL CROSSING OFFICE STOP FOR THE LOVE OF HEAVEN FIND HIM MYCROFT STOP MORAN MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN LONDON STOP HAVE NO TIME TO SPARE UPON ARRIVAL STOP WILL MEET YOU IN PALL MALL TWO TOMORROW AFTERNOON STOP S. 

I sat uneasily, fidgeting in my seat, waiting impatiently for the train to pull out that would take me to Calais. Once I got there, I would have to wait overnight for the Channel boat to set out at ten Monday morning.

My mind was conjuring up all kinds of horrible images, knowing what Moran was capable of. The tiger-hunter had no compassion, no mercy, and no conscience – that was why he had been so very valuable to his master.

And now, not only was I trying to avoid his knowing my location, but the man also had my dearest friend in his power. And whether he realized it or not, that was far more of a persuasive power over me than if he was holding that air-gun to my own head.

The nauseating thought suddenly hit me – perhaps that was why he had not yet killed Watson; he was using him for bait to finally bring me out of hiding. I sincerely hoped not, but it made a twisted kind of sense.

He was killing two birds with one stone – get rid of the only man currently in London who knew the truth about the Adair murder, and use that man to bring me back on the run.

Moran was no fool; he was a mastermind like his Professor before him. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

And as we sped over the French countryside, I stared moodily out the window, weighted down with the dread knowledge that if I did not time this plan exactly right, then the reunion I had been anticipating for nearly three years would turn into a horrible tragedy.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	10. Chapter 10

I took a deep breath to steady myself as the footsteps on the creaking stairs grew nearer, pricking up my ears and listening intently. It sounded as if there were two or three men –Moran himself in all probability, and two of his cohorts. Leftovers from the Moriarty syndicate, I surmised.

In a matter of minutes three shadowy forms appeared in the doorway of the crumbling room, one of them carrying a dark lantern. He did not unshield it more than a crack, I supposed because with the fast approaching darkness someone would see the light from the window.

That meant, I deduced, that I was still in town, where people would be passing by this house. I had no time to be proud of my small deduction, however, for as the leader of the men stepped into the room, the watery light from the window fell upon his face and I instantly recognized him from the courtroom.

"Colonel Moran. I was wondering when you would pay me a visit," I said, willing my voice to be as cool as Holmes's always had been when dealing with criminals.

The man's large mustache bristled and twitched in a brief smile.

"Holmes always did say you were cool under fire, Doctor," he said, regarding me with a baleful scrutiny.

I said nothing but waited for his next move. The two men behind him remained in the shadows outside the room – probably were going to be my guards for the night.

"I suppose you are wondering why you are here, Doctor?"

"I must admit to being puzzled as to why you merely captured me instead of just killing me like you did the Honorable Ronald Adair," I said, eyeing the tiger-hunter for his reaction.

His high bald forehead jerked upward as he glared at me.

"How much do you know about that affair?"

"Isn't that why you brought me here, because you realized I knew too much?" I countered with a question of my own. If I were going to get out of this, I had to play for as much time as I could.

"How much do you know?" the man asked, taking a threatening step toward me.

"That is not what you should be worried about, Moran. You should be wondering how much of what I know I have told the police," I said coolly.

My mind was jumping much faster than I had ever thought before in my life, trying to keep him unsettled so that he would not take it into his head to try to force the information out of me. I would need my full strength to try to find a way out of this mess.

"I caught you before you got to the police, Doctor – I am not a fool," the man spat angrily, his former falsely honorable attitude gone upon the instant, "I have been following you every second since I first found out you were the police surgeon for that young fool Adair."

"Yes, I spotted your men on two occasions," I replied, forcing calm into my voice.

"I know you have not contacted the police since last night after the inquest, Dr. Watson," Moran said, towering over me and leaning close to my face, "that is not the information I want out of you."

"Well, that is rather a good thing, since I would not tell you at any rate. What exactly do you want from me, then?" I asked, my neck cramping from having to look up at the man towering over me.

Moran's mustache bristled again with barely suppressed seething rage as he glared at me and spoke in a tone of hatred such as I have seldom heard from anyone. But that was not what arrested my attention and filled my mind with disbelief. It was his words that did it, that made my face drain of color as he spoke.

"I have no time to play games with you, Doctor. You are going to tell me, and you are going to tell me now, where your friend Sherlock Holmes is - or I will kill you right here and now."

* * *

NO TRACES YET STOP MORAN NOT SEEN AT CLUB OR HOME SINCE SATURDAY EVENING HAS VANISHED AS WELL STOP LESTRADE COMBING DOCTOR'S HOUSE FOR CLUES NO LUCK AS OF YET STOP MAKE ALL HASTE STOP M.

* * *

"I beg your pardon." 

"Where is he?" the man demanded, grabbing my collar and forcing my head upward to meet his baleful yellow eyes.

"At the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls with your master, you idiot – where else would he be?" I spat in fury, the still raw grief in my heart fueling my words with an anger that could have matched Moran's own.

Moran slammed my head back into the hard wood of the chair, glaring at me.

"Do not play games with me, Doctor – I know he had to have told you. That is why you went to Baker Street, is it not? He contacted you and told you to fetch some information from there that he could use to convict me of the Adair murder. Didn't he!"

I stared at the man as if he had taken leave of his senses – perhaps he had?

"Moran. Holmes could not have told me any such thing, because _I do not believe in séances and communicating with the dead_!" I snapped.

"You are lying, Doctor."

"What? Are you mad?"

"You will learn, Doctor, that it is a dangerous habit to play tricks with me," the Colonel said menacingly, fixing me with a stare that sent a chill of fear stabbing through my heart.

But amid that chill a tiny, tiny faint spark of hope suddenly ignited. Could Moran be right? Could Holmes really be – really be alive?

No, he would have told me. He surely would have told me in three years.

Or would he?

* * *

BOAT LEAVES IN NINE HOURS STOP SHALL BE IN LONDON BY MIDAFTERNOON STOP HAVE LESTRADE MEET ME WITH YOU STOP HAVE PLAN TO CAPTURE MORAN STOP S. 

I glanced at the clock, desperately wishing for sleep if only to escape the frightful thoughts that continued to race through my head. But I could not sleep, I could not. The one time I had, I had been visited with such a ghastly nightmare about Moran and Watson that I was actually afraid to doze off again, scared that the awful dream would repeat itself.

My mind was back in London, mentally tracing the byways and streets, knowing exactly where Moran lived and what his haunts were.

I had been completely unable to get any evidence against him, not even a whisper, when I had routed the Moriarty gang. He was the only large fish that had escaped my net three years ago, without even a slight indication of involvement with the Professor.

But now that man had spread nets of his own – Watson had already been caught in the trap, and I was next, I had no doubt.

The question was, how to get Watson out without harm befalling him?

I gave up sleeping and started to pace up and down my dingy hotel room, smoking incessantly, going over and over every bit of my plan for tomorrow night – it had to go off without error, or my dearest friend's life would probably be forfeit.

And _that_ thought made me positively ill.

* * *

I swallowed hard as Moran's intent to get the information he desired from me became clear as one of his men stepped forward with a gag for my mouth – they could not chance any sounds being heard in a town house such as this one, I supposed. 

"Moran, Sherlock Holmes is dead," I said, hoping my voice was not shaking with the fear I was fighting desperately to quell.

Moran stopped the man from gagging me and got down on my eye level to fix me with a penetrating stare.

"I admire your willingness to protect your friend, Doctor – quite gallant and heroic. But it is very foolish, I promise you. I have no real desire to do you an injury, other than to bring the pain I know it will to your friend. But I have no compunction whatever about getting that information from you one way or the other, Doctor. You may choose to either cooperate or be stubborn."

My mind was racing like an engine about to tear itself to pieces. Why did Moran think Holmes was alive? Did he just assume I could not have made the correct deductions on my own about the Adair case, that I was merely a puppet and Holmes was working me from behind the scenes?

"What makes you think that Holmes is alive, Moran?" I asked, casting a glance at the two burly thugs that were waiting in the shadows for our conversation to end.

The old tiger hunter glared at me.

"You are not very good at stalling, Doctor, or prevaricating."

"No, perhaps not. But tell me anyway."

Moran let out a sharp bark of a laugh.

"I do not _think_, Doctor, I _know_ that he is alive, because I followed Professor Moriarty to the Falls that day three years ago and saw exactly what happened."

My head started to spin – was he telling me the truth? Had I been deceived into a wrong conclusion based upon the evidence at Reichenbach? Was Holmes really alive like this man evidently was prepared to swear to?

Or was he lying to me, taking pleasure in seeing my distress?

But what motive would he have in lying to me? He was keeping me alive for some reason – why go through all this rigmarole about the Falls if all he wanted from me was to know how close I was to being able to convict him for the Adair murder?

Perhaps… perhaps he was really telling the truth?

I steeled myself for the explanation that was about to be forthcoming, knowing that whatever I was about to hear, it was not going to be pleasant.

_If Moran is right, then…then Holmes has deceived me for three years? Three years?_ _Would he really do that – to me?_

_

* * *

_

**_To be continued...reviews are very much appreciated!_**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: I had better explain that this story is totally unrelated to my version of FINAL (as in my fic** _Greater Love_**). It is a re-working of the Canon, not of my own version - Holmes did not bargain with Moriarty at the Falls for Watson and Moran in this story here.**

**Sorry about any confusion! KCS**

* * *

I steeled myself tensely, willing a mask to drop over my features as Colonel Moran pulled up another ancient chair and seated himself in it, leaning forward so that our knees were almost touching, and looked at me scrutinizingly. 

"What makes you think that Sherlock Holmes is alive, Moran?" I asked again, inordinately proud of the fact that my voice was as flat and unemotional as I had hoped it would be.

"I saw the whole scenario at the Falls, Doctor – you cannot bluff me, for I know the truth as well as you do," he snapped, his yellowish eyes glaring balefully at me.

"Indeed. And what exactly is the truth?" I asked calmly, though my heart was racing so fast I was having trouble controlling my breathing.

"My, you are a cagey one, Doctor," the tiger-hunter said with a wicked gleam in those yellow depths, "very well, I shall tell you – perhaps Holmes did not inform you of all the details, eh?"

I braced myself – what was he going to say? And was it even going to be true?

"I saw the whole thing, Doctor; I was across the Falls on a rocky ledge, training my gun on the both of them. I saw them talk, the Professor withdraw, and your precious friend write some note, no doubt a drivelly farewell to you."

I swallowed hard.

"And then I saw them struggle, lasting for a good two or three minutes. Holmes managed to throw Moriarty off and down into the abyss."

I stared at the man, hoping my eyes were not betraying my feelings. Could this be true?

"He then began to climb up the side of the rocky cliff, finally reaching a ledge about a third of the way up. "

I closed my eyes for a moment. This conversation was dredging up too many painful memories for me – I could almost hear the roiling, pounding cauldron of water and feel the spray as it rolled up in a fine mist…

"And then you returned, Doctor. Do not look at me like that; I saw the whole thing," the man said, glaring at me.

Holmes had – if this were true, then he had lain there above me and watched me? He had seen the whole thing and made no move?

Surely not. He couldn't have.

He _wouldn't_ have.

Or would he?

I was suddenly seized with the icy knowledge that he just might.

"No doubt, Doctor, Holmes told you why he did not call out to you," Moran said boredly.

I then realized that, if what he was saying were true, then as soon as Moran found out that I really knew nothing of Holmes's whereabouts, he would have no reason to keep me alive any longer.

I had to play along with him, if only to keep myself from getting killed.

"I have not had a chance to question him on the matter," I returned truthfully in an equally bored tone of voice.

"Ha – then he _has_ contacted you!"

"I did not say so."

"But you implied it!"

"Are you going to finish your tale, Moran, or are you going to start a verbal sparring match?" I asked impatiently, wanting desperately to hear the rest despite my apprehension.

Moran smirked dangerously.

"The reason he did not call out to you was because he could see me. And I was aiming my special air-gun directly at your heart, Doctor."

That arrested my attention on the instant.

"You what?"

"Holmes always did have a soft spot for you, Doctor," the Colonel said with a deep contempt, "he did not want to see you meet the fate that was in store for him as soon as you and the officials had left the scene a few hours later."

The faint spark of hope that had been growing in me suddenly flickered and nearly went out at his words.

"If you shot him, Moran, then he is still dead," I said dryly, attempting to force the emotion out of my voice once again. I did not quite succed, but the tiger-hunter was too angry to notice the shakiness of my words.

"You can stop the playacting, Doctor, for you know as well as I that he escaped. I lost him over the mountains that night in the dark." Moran snapped impatiently.

My head was reeling, trying to absorb this new information. Was it true? I could see no gain Moran would get from lying to me, but I had a very difficult time believing what I heard.

Surely Holmes would not have kept me in the dark for three years, if this tale were accurate?

But I had no time to think of anything else, no time to cogitate a plan to stall Moran, no time to debate with myself whether the things I heard were the truth – for the Colonel leaned forward and delivered his ultimatum in as cool and calm a tone as if he were discussing the latest street gossip.

"You have just thirty seconds to tell me where Sherlock Holmes is, Doctor, or you will very much regret your innate stubbornness."

* * *

I stood at the rail of the ship, impatiently drumming my fingers on the brass in front of me, glaring at the shoreline. Five minutes until we sailed. Five minutes. 

What was going on back in London? Where was Watson? What had Moran done to him? Could I even get there in time? Was I already too late to prevent the worst?

Five minutes.

They seemed like hours.

* * *

I glared at Colonel Moran with what spirit I could muster under the emotional whirlwind that was threatening to overtake my mind. Holmes – perhaps alive? Perhaps? 

And he had kept silent at the Falls because Moran had been aiming that air-gun at me? He had not told me he was alive to protect me?

I might buy into that theory for the first few months of his absence – but not for three years! Why had he kept silent for three whole years?

"Doctor, I am warning you."

"I do not know where he is, Moran."

"You cannot lie to me, Doctor!"

Whatever had happened to Holmes's saying dissimulation was not one of my virtues? I was telling the truth and this man would not believe me!

"I am not lying, Moran – I don't know where he is!" I said, glancing with apprehension at the two men who were now slinking up behind the old shikari.

"You are not leaving me any options, Doctor," Moran said in a cold warning.

"I give you my word, I don't know!" I replied desperately, trying to decide – should I make up a story?

No, because as long as I held out, Moran would think I knew and he would keep me alive to tell him. I had to hold out.

"We will see how stubborn you are after twenty-four hours without food and water, Doctor," Moran said calmly. "And I have no taste for pointless violence; therefore I am going to leave you now. My men here will see that you are..._persuaded_ to cooperate with me."

I swallowed down the lump of fear in my throat.

"And you probably will change your mind about telling me, Doctor, before the next day is over with. All that you have to do is say that you are willing to cooperate, and they will stop and contact me. Is that understood?"

I met the villain's smug smirk with the last vestige of spirit that had not been swept away by that lurking terror inside me.

"I really do regret this, Doctor. I had no desire for you to come to any real harm, but you are even more obstinate than I had anticipated," Moran said with an elaborate sigh, rising from his chair. "Do make sure no noise reaches the street outside, men? I shall return this time tomorrow, or before if you wish it, Dr. Watson. Good night."

* * *

Finally! We were about to sail – thank God! In four hours, I should be in London. Four hours, and then I would see Mycroft and Lestrade and put into action my plan. 

I had eagerly anticipated my return to home for three long and weary years – living every waking minute in the hopeful looking forward to what should have been a glorious day, seeing the places and the people I loved so dearly once again after so long.

But there was no joy in my heart now. A slight feeling of gladness about seeing my brother, but it was far overshadowed by this dread and fear of losing the one person in the world I really could say I loved outside of Mycroft.

Four hours.

* * *

**_To be continued...please do review!_**


	12. Chapter 12

I watched Colonel Moran as he picked up his fancy walking-stick, hat, and gloves, dusting a cobweb fastidiously off his sleeve before nodding to me.

"Remember, no noise," he said warningly to one of the men he was leaving to guard me.

The man nodded and started toward me with the gag in his hand, and I swallowed hard, sure that my trembling must be evident to him and wishing desperately for a little more courage.

I would most likely need it before the night and next day were over.

* * *

HAVE FOUND EVIDENCE SUGGESTING DOCTOR STUMBLED UPON WHOLE TRUTH STOP WILL HAVE FACTS AWAITING YOU AT TWO STOP ARE YOU ON TIME BROTHER STOP M. 

HAVE ARRIVED DOVER STOP TRAIN LEAVES MOMENTARILY STOP WILL BE ON SCHEDULE STOP MAKE SURE LESTRADE IS NOT FOLLOWED TO PALL MALL STOP S.

* * *

"'E's out cold, 'e is." 

"I think he's bluffing."

"Nah, 'e isn't. Let's go get a pint."

"You heard the Colonel – stay put, he said."

"Well 'e's bloody well not gonna go anywhere!"

"Mm, suppose you're right. Better make it quick, mind."

I listened as the footsteps left the room and thudded down the staircase and then lifted my head and opened my eyes, biting back a moan. Moran had not been bluffing when he said I would wish I had given him more information.

But I really had no information to give him, not matter how much violence those two henchmen used upon me!

I had finally hit upon the idea to make as though I had lost consciousness – heaven knows by all rights I should have after that beating – and evidently I was a good enough actor to play it out convincingly. I remembered all of Holmes's instructions about falsifying a faint and put them into play, hoping the ruse would work and the blows would cease. And obviously the prevarication had worked.

I had a few minutes' respite, at least.

Which I would spend thinking.

I tried once more to free myself but to no avail – Moran had done his job too well. Besides, I was not sure I had the strength just now to make a very valiant effort. I could feel blood on my face and quite a few bruises; Moran had picked his underlings with care. They knew what they were doing.

I slumped back with a muffled sigh through that infernal gag, trying to ignore my throbbing headache and other various pains that were making themselves manifest vocally, and instead trying to make sense of what Moran had told me.

Could it – could it possibly be true, that Holmes was alive? I had seen the tracks with my own eyes; could he really have climbed up that sheer cliff?

And if he could, why had he not let me know he was safe when he lost Moran? Why keep me in the dark for three years?

Part of me wanted to believe Holmes would not have done that to me. He just would not have.

But…

But he already had deceived me before, in the case of Culverton Smith. He had deceived me then, and about his death too. He had done it once. Why not again?

Granted, three years was a long time – I knew all too well just _how_ long it was.

Was Moran really telling me the truth?

He had no motive for lying to me, at least I could perceive none. But – my heart still refused to believe the fantastic idea, trying to protect itself from a wickedly false hope, afraid that spark would be extinguished and I would wake up to the fact that I had dreamt the whole affair.

I did not know _what_ to think, whom to believe, which story were true. And I was too tired now to even attempt to make sense of the affair.

Perhaps those men, when they returned, would be tired enough to go to sleep instead of resuming their interrogation of me. I dearly hoped so.

* * *

I cursed my hands, for they were shaking slightly as we drew ever nearer to London. I was attempting to apply a thorough disguise – if Moran had Watson, he probably suspected I would be returning and might have a spy at the railway station. It had to be an excellent disguise, and I was taking more time than I had anticipated to apply it. 

And my hands were trembling, making the make-up job harder than normal. I could not ever recall having been so terrified, so absolutely scared in my entire life. I faced Moriarty without a qualm at the Reichenbach Falls, knowing I was in the right, a sort of champion of justice dueling with fate to rid the world of the Napoleon of Crime.

I also had had the knowledge that I had finished my life with the act of saving the most important one to me – I knew at once that the letter from the hotel was a hoax, and I had made sure Watson followed it in order to distance himself from me. I would not allow him to suffer the fate I knew was in store for me.

But now, now that life was again in danger, and because of me! I had kept silence for three years because I was afraid of what Moran might do to Watson if he thought my friend might know I was alive.

And now, he had done the worst despite my silence! I could have saved us both a deal of grief if I had not kept silence for so long – it had done Watson no good to live in ignorance of my survival.

I set my jaw and finished applying my disguise – we were nearly to London now, and I had to be ready and watchful, at my highest alertness, wary of any of Moran's men. I pushed all emotional thoughts firmly behind a wall of clear and precise professional logic.

In an hour I would see my brother and lay my plans for tonight. And before morning, I would see Moran in jail.

Or dead.

I really did not care which.

* * *

I leaned my aching head against the hard wooden back of the chair and wondered how long I had been in this house. I had left Baker Street around two-thirty, and it was dark now, judging from the feeble flickering light outside – from a street lamp, I surmised. Probably it was going on nine or ten. 

I wondered if Lestrade had realized yet that I was missing – my household servants would think nothing of the fact, but Lestrade might think it odd if he called and I was not at home.

But had he called? Probably not. I was really and truly alone.

I had to think of something – Moran had said he would return this time tomorrow. I had to think of a plausible story to tell him that would buy me some time, or else he might decide that I was more trouble than I was worth and kill me.

I was most definitely not looking forward to a whole day and night without food or water – I was already dreadfully dry from that gag and it was not likely to get more bearable.

I stiffened as I heard steady footfalls on the stairs – those men were returning, no doubt to resume their 'persuasive tactics'. I shuddered but pulled myself together before they had reached the top of the steps.

I was a soldier, and I refused to act otherwise.

* * *

I heard the warning for Victoria in the corridor and bundled the remnants of my disguise material back into my valise, sticking my head with something akin to excitement out the window to catch my first glimpse of my city. 

London was as grey and dingy as ever – but despite the gloom of a spring storm gathering, it was still home to me, and a thrill of joy swept over me at the sight of the venerable buildings and cobbled streets I had not been a part of for so long.

But that thought turned quickly into a more sombre one – no matter how much I loved London, it would not be home to me, not while Watson was in the power of that monster. I had no time to waste.

I grasped my valise and Gladstone firmly in each hand, checking once more to see that the casual foppish traveler's disguise I had adopted was in place – that confounded mustache was already beginning to itch infernally – and hopped off the train the minute the thing had stopped, eager to feel the sensation of my feet on firm London soil.

The excitement was marred by my morbid thoughts, however, and I hastily made my way through Victoria Station to the cabstand near the entrance.

There would be no pleasure for me until my work was done.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Don't get used to this four-chapter-a-day thing, people - but I'm leaving on Monday for a week-long teachers' convention out of state and I want to get this story finished before I leave. **

**So here's the next installment - enjoy.**

**_KCS_**

* * *

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

"I am fine, Mycroft – now what the devil is going on!"

I was nearly shaking with suppressed emotion, feeling my grip on reality slip as I looked for the first time in three years into the watery grey eyes of my brother and read the near-frantic concern I saw there. Mycroft really had worried about me during my absence, and though I would die rather than admit it, I was rather overjoyed to see my elder brother.

I had shown up in his rooms not thirty seconds ago, breaking in without any preliminaries and nearly frightening a panicked Inspector Lestrade half to death with my theatrics. I was not intentionally being dramatic – I had no time for that – but I did not realize what a shock I had given the little official until he nearly collapsed into the chair my brother shoved toward him.

Then Mycroft took my arm and pushed me into a seat beside him on the settee, his sharp eyes scrutinizing me carefully.

"You haven't been sleeping or eating, have you?"

"I have no time, Mycroft. Tell me everything, _now_," I snapped impatiently – there were far more important things to worry about than my health at the moment!

* * *

I snapped awake with a gasp, staring round me in absolute bewilderment – where in the world was I? 

Then the events of the previous day came back with a vengeance, and I realized I was still in this wretched room in this empty house.

From the bright light now filtering through the grimy window, I assumed it was now mid-morning – I had at last fallen asleep in the early hours of this morning when the men guarding me had tired of baiting me and had gone elsewhere, I assumed to get some sleep themselves.

It had been a miserable night, punctuated with jeering taunts and blows from the two chaps Moran had set upon me, and I now realized how stiff and sore I really was – and how thirsty.

And the day had only just started.

* * *

"Sherlock, you need to rest for a few minutes first –" 

"There is not time, Mycroft! Do you not understand what has happened?" I cried impatiently.

My brother sighed and tossed a book in my direction.

"I went to Baker Street at your brother's request, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade chimed in, his ferret face more sober than I had ever seen it, actually pinched with worry, "and – and I found these open on your table."

I glanced at the books my brother handed me, and felt a sense of nostalgia – my commonplace books I had spent so many hours updating.

"Why were they out on the table?"

"I should think the Doctor went to Baker Street to look up the names of the people involved in the case, Sherlock," Mycroft went on to tell me, "because these are the H and M books. Adair's three card partners' names began with those letters – Hardy, Murray, and Moran."

I moaned, slumping back into the couch.

"And he came across my writing beside Moran's name and guessed the truth," I whispered, staring at the open page upon my lap.

"He must have, Mr. Holmes. I know he was on to something the night before he disappeared – Friday, that was, after the inquest. Looked awfully preoccupied every time I mentioned the murder weapon."

"The air-gun."

"What?"

"VonHerder's air-gun. It fires revolver bullets. If Watson somehow deduced its existence, then he would have figured out that it had to be one of the people who knew Adair well. And he would have gone of course to see if our old files at Baker Street had any information about any of them."

"And when he saw that notation, he realized it was Moran."

"Exactly, Lestrade. Mycroft, do you know when the last time was he was seen?" I asked, slamming the book shut and tossing it to the floor.

"No one knows for sure, Sherlock – but your landlady swears he had to have been in there Saturday afternoon, because she dusted at noon exactly up there and nothing had been touched. She went out around half-past one and returned at four that day," my brother said, his immense brows drawn in an expression of deep concern.

"Then he let himself in with his old key and was up there at some point in that time – good Lord, Mycroft – he's been missing for forty-eight hours!" I said miserably, slumping down in my seat and closing my eyes with the horror of the thing.

So much could happen in forty-eight hours!

* * *

I was growing thoroughly weary of these two imbecile's inane conversation, the majority of which were half-witted taunts and threats toward me. When they found that I could not be provoked to any reaction, they had decided to leave me alone and were now playing with a deck of cards in the hall outside. 

I smirked despite the situation – Holmes had always said that calm and lack of reaction would still even the most blatant of jeers, and as always he was right.

My thoughts turned naturally in his direction now.

If Moran was telling me the truth, then Holmes was alive. I still could not register the fact, I simply could not. My brain told me it was not possible, and my heart told me not to become hopeful for I was bound to be disappointed.

But if he was…

If he was, then where was he?

He could be anywhere in the world!

I wondered wistfully if what Moran said were true – was Holmes ever coming back to London? And why had he stayed away so long?

The sun had passed over the house and was now setting, throwing a direct beam in through the filthy window – right straight into my eyes. I closed them against the blinding light and realized anew how thirsty I was; it was infernally hot in here.

My head ached – my whole upper body did, as a matter of fact – but it was the thirst that was the most annoying now.

But I thought back to my days in Afghanistan – I had been so much worse off then and survived it. This was not a real hardship.

Not yet, at least.

* * *

"Sherlock, get hold of yourself!" 

"Get hold of myself? Do you realize what this means, Mycroft?" I cried, jumping out of my seat to pace up and down the room, "Moran is the only man, _the only man_, who knew I was still alive. And now he has Watson – and you tell me to calm down!?"

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock! Inspector, a brandy if you please? Now _sit down_, brother!"

Mycroft grabbed me and pushed me back onto the couch, glaring daggers at me.

"You are acting irrationally, Sherlock. Clear your mind and start formulating a plan. The Doctor cannot be dead yet – Moran will keep him alive in hopes that you would come back to London. Now."

I downed the glass Lestrade handed to me with a muttered thank-you and focused on my older brother's strong, calm words.

"What did you have planned for tonight, Sherlock?"

* * *

The heat in the room had become stifling, and I was acutely aware of the perspiration trickling down under my collar – unable to wipe it away, it was dreadfully annoying. I wondered what time it was; the two guards outside my room were weary of the heat as well, judging from the colourful language I could hear filtering in from the hall.

Moran really needed to choose his underlings more carefully – they had stopped their fruitless attempts to 'persuade' me when they realized I refused to make a sound. No satisfaction for them, I supposed.

Moran would be coming back around six or seven, I guessed. I had no idea what to tell him when he did. If I told him the truth, he would not believe me; and I had no idea how to lie with conviction.

I cast a nervous glance up as the sunlight fell away from my face. The evening was progressing. If only I could get some sleep perhaps the pain would have subsided for a bit – I would try it. If those two thugs in the corridor would cease arguing over their petty bets!

I tried again, still futilely, to wriggle free of the ropes that bound me to the chair – but with no success. I sighed and closed my eyes, prepared to try to get some badly needed rest.

But my head jerked up suddenly as I heard the a door slam somewhere below me and the two men outside the room scrambled to put away the deck of cards.

Moran was coming back to collect his ultimatum.

What was I going to tell him?

* * *

**_To be continued - reviews are very much appreciated as always!_**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: This one is for VHunter07, because I promised it - now NO MAS until tomorrow!**

* * *

"Well, Doctor, I hope you have been treated well during your stay?"

"False pleasantries do not become a man of your ilk, Colonel," I replied, very glad indeed now to have my mouth free at last.

"Then I shall dispense with them, Doctor. I have to say I am rather displeased that you have not yet decided to cooperate with me," the shikari's eyes flashed at me.

"You can tell that I appear heartbroken over the fact," I responded dryly.

Moran snorted and pulled that ancient chair up again close to me.

"I was going to allow you to move about a bit, Doctor – but that little barb just cost you that privilege."

My eyes must have betrayed my dismay, for his own lit up with enjoyment.

"Yes, I rather thought you'd be a bit cramped by now. Pity you have to keep that vein of attempted humor that so marked your dear friend's caustic personality."

I said nothing, not wishing to bring any further ire upon myself from the old tiger-hunter, trying desperately to think. I was so tired – the process was rather slow. What should I tell him?

"So, Dr. Watson. Have you decided to tell me where Sherlock Holmes is?"

"I already told you, I do not know!"

"You stick to that statement?"

"Of course I do – it is the truth!" I said emphatically.

"Such a pity. Then you no longer are of any use to me, Doctor," Moran said casually, playing with his fancy walking stick.

I gulped down a chill of fear.

"Do you know what this is, Doctor?"

"No, but I suppose you are going to tell me?"

Moran smirked mirthlessly.

"This, my dear Doctor, is that wonderful little air-gun Holmes had to have told you about at some point. Absolutely noiseless."

The man demonstrated how simple it was to assemble the parts from what appeared to be an ordinary stick as well as a few small implements from his pockets. Within three seconds, he had put the weapon together and loaded a revolver bullet into the chamber.

"So simple, and so silent, Doctor. No one will ever hear a shot down in the street," the man said, suddenly standing and pointing the rifle directly at my head.

I felt my eyes widen despite my efforts to give him no reaction.

"Since you do not know where Sherlock Holmes is, you are no longer of any use to me, Doctor. It really is a pity, for you seem an honourable man. I respect that. But not enough to allow you to live."

I had to think quickly – he was going to kill me right here and now!

* * *

"Sherlock." 

"What, Mycroft?"

"I do wish you would get some sleep – we can do nothing until tonight; that gives us a good six or seven hours before we need start."

"I cannot sleep, Mycroft."

"Whyever not?" he asked me, his normally impatient voice softening slightly.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Nightmares," I replied gruffly, kicking the commonplace book at my feet with a muttered curse.

"Drink then?"

"Two, please, Mycroft."

"_One_, Sherlock. Unless you eat something."

"One then."

* * *

"I really wish you had decided to work with me, Doctor. I find it hard to believe that Holmes would be gone for three years and not tell you one time where he was," Moran was saying, his mustache drooping casually over the stock of the gun he held aimed at my head. 

_I do not find it so hard to believe,_ I thought miserably. If – and I said _if_ – Holmes were alive, Moran had more faith in his qualities as a friend than I did.

"Are you sure you 'do not know' where he is, Doctor?"

"I..." I stopped, not knowing what to say, my mind racing.

"Very well then. Give my respects to the Professor when you meet up in the next life."

Moran's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Wait!" I said desperately.

The gun remained aimed at my head, and I began to think frantically.

"Go on, Doctor."

"All right – all right, I shall tell you what I know, Moran. But I have not heard from him in probably six months," I lied outright for the first time, hoping I was doing it convincingly.

I must have, for Moran put the gun down and seated himself again with the weapon across his knees.

"I rather thought you might see reason, Doctor. You do want to see your friend again after three years, do you not? No sense in dying before you have a chance to at least reunite for a few moments."

_You have no idea how much I want to see him, Colonel.

* * *

_

I lay on the bed in my brother's spare room – I had an hour before I needed to hit Baker Street and lay my plans for the evening. My mind was racing, formulating situations faster than I could fathom, and it was nearly enough to drive me mad.

I thought back to all I knew of Moran, all his master and he had managed to pull off in London under my very nose for so many years, all the heinous atrocities they had committed with my utter helplessness to stop them.

And this man, my arch-enemy's right-hand man, now had my dearest friend. I shivered and pulled the blanket closer round me, my hands clenched into tight fists.

_Tonight, Watson, tonight. I promise you, I shall have him.

* * *

_

"I – I heard from him last October, Moran," I said, desperately making this up as I went along – anything to gain time. "He was in America."

"Where."

"Chicago, working with the Pinkerton agency."

"Under what name?"

"He didn't tell me."

Where had _that_ come from? I must really have a knack for storytelling, for I had no idea from whence this egregious falsehood was emerging in my consciousness.

Moran must have swallowed my tale, for his brows knitted eagerly and he began to disassemble that deadly weapon.

"I shall check your story, Doctor. I most certainly hope you have been shooting square with me," the man said meaningfully.

I nearly panicked – he would find out by tomorrow afternoon probably that I had been lying through my teeth! It would only take a few telegrams and he would realize the truth!

But it at least would keep me alive another day. And right now, that was the only thing I cared about.

Because if – and I still said _if_ – Sherlock Holmes were indeed alive; if there were even the slightest chance, then I at last, after so many months, had something to live for.

And I would fight to the end on that slim chance.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	15. Chapter 15

That infernal clock in Mycroft's hallway was driving me out of my mind with its ticking. My brother had had to run back to Whitehall to take care of some governmental paperwork, promising to meet me back here once my little jaunt to Baker Street was concluded.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

I swore loudly and went out into the hallway, taking the back off the clock and removing a spring. The annoying noise ceased, and I went back to the spare room, absently making a note to myself to tell Mycroft what I had done lest he be late to a Cabinet meeting or something because of the clock's being out of commission.

It was half-past three. I had an hour before I needed to get to Baker Street. Lestrade had already informed Mrs. Hudson that I was alive so that she need not indulge in hysteria or anything of the kind upon my arrival; so that was taken care of at least.

I certainly hoped this would work – if it did not, I should be carrying an unbearable burden of guilt for the rest of my life.

And if it did not work, I would have no desire to carry on with the rest of my life at all.

* * *

I was growing exceedingly cramped and uncomfortable – not only had Moran denied me the privilege of stretching my limbs, he had also dictated I was still to not receive any food until he verified the truth of my allegations that Holmes had been last seen in America.

He had allowed me one drink of water but had not permitted me to be untied to have it – and the man who had given it to me only laughed when most of it ended up on my shirt-front.

But at least it was something. I could go for two days without food, but to do so without any water would make me dreadfully weak. And I had to be able to fight for my life when the time came, as I knew it eventually would.

The moon was casting a silvery glow through the dingy window now – it had to be past midnight. The men guarding me had withdrawn to the staircase, where they could have a light without it being seen from the street windows, and were now engaged in a long string of filthy anecdotes that might make a sailor blush.

I tried to close my ears to the vulgar sounds and fastened my mind on something other than my discomfort.

That one question kept coming back to haunt my mind in a spectre of years gone by –

Was Sherlock Holmes really alive?

I fidgeted in my chair, trying in vain to find a position that would offer even a little comfort so that I could try to get some sleep – would those idiots out there ever grow weary of each other's absurd conversations? – but I still remained dreadfully uncomfortable. I almost wished for the chloroform again; at least then I would not be conscious.

I tried to calm my mind but it was racing too, too rapidly. Was Holmes really alive? If he was, where was he now?

Would he –

Would he somehow hear about this and come after me?

No, the odds were stacked enormously against it.

And I still was not sure if I believed him to be alive. It was just too incredible. Much as I wanted to believe it, I simply could not. My mind was not capable of comprehending the possibility.

I prayed desperately for sleep, for a long sleep, so that the night would pass without further distress for me.

And finally, deep into that dreadful night, my exhausted mind and body finally withdrew and I did fall asleep, albeit an uneasy one due to my physical and emotional discomfort.

* * *

I snapped awake with a start when yet another of Mycroft's demon-possessed clocks chimed the half-hour. I realized with a growl that I had dozed off and it was now half-past four. Time to prepare to be on my way.

And time to hope like I never had before that I was doing the right thing here – if I were not, the consequences were higher than I would be able to pay.

* * *

I awoke very stiff and numb the next morning about midmorning, slumped in my chair against my bonds. My guardians were nowhere to be seen, probably having stepped out for breakfast.

Or luncheon, I reflected, seeing how close the sun's rays were to dipping into the west window.

The thought made my stomach growl, and I realized afresh how very hungry I was – it had been forty-eight hours since I had eaten, for I had been so animated Saturday about the information I had deduced about the murder that I had not eaten luncheon before coming to Baker Street.

The hours passed so very slowly, my mind and emotions in almost more pain than my physical being, so many and so painful were the thoughts and memories that were bombarding my brain. More reminiscences of the past had been dredged up over this affair than I had thought of in many a month – parts of my mind I thought I had succeeded in closing off because of their terrible poignancy were now being broken into and harsh memories released.

I was almost relieved when I heard footsteps in the hall downstairs – at least I would have those two men's appalling conversations to break up the monotony and the unpleasantness of my own thoughts.

But then I could discern that there were the footsteps of only one man – and I realized with trepidation from the steady, almost angry pounding that it must be the Colonel. He had found out that I had lied to him about Holmes being in America.

I was going to have to think rather quickly.

* * *

I checked and rechecked everything to see if it were all in place. I had the bust, I had my plans, I had Lestrade's promise that the Yard would cooperate in the fullest extent, I had Mycroft's word that he would come along (he apparently did not wish to let me out of his sight), and…

…and I had the sick feeling of that dread weight that had settled in my heart. It had been forty-eight hours, more than that, since Watson had disappeared with Colonel Moran.

Where was he? How had Moran treated him? Was he even still alive? Surely the old shikari would keep him alive in case he needed a tool to bargain with me?

But Moran was cool and confident – he never needed to bargain. And that thought chilled me to my very core. This uncertainty, knowing that Moran might already have killed Watson, was very nearly killing me as well.

I swallowed hard, got a firm grip on my control, and set my jaw. This night's work had to come off perfectly. I had no room for error.

And as such, I had no room for sentiment.

Not until I found Watson again.

* * *

Moran had ordered me gagged again upon his leaving the day before, not willing to chance my voice carrying to the street if I attempted to call for help, and so my muffled gasp was not even audible as the man himself stalked into the room, his face contorted with a fury I have seldom seen in a human face.

His yellow eyes were glaring at me with a menace that made me shiver, like one of his own tigers about to pounce upon his prey. I shuddered at the thought. Obviously, my poorly planned deception, although it had bought me another day of life, had not been the wisest course of action.

He was livid. Very, very enraged.

Moran ripped the gag from round my mouth with enough force to have snapped my neck.

"I told you that you would regret it if you played tricks with me, Doctor!" he snarled.

"I don't understand," I said, my voice hoarse from my dry throat and parched lips.

"You understand perfectly, Doctor. I told you to shoot straight with me, and you deliberately led me on a wild-goose chase!"

"I did nothing of the kind!" I protested, trying desperately to think of what to do.

I was engaged in that thought and in consequence had no warning to dodge the vicious backhand Moran aimed at my head. I winced but made no sound, gritting my teeth against showing the man any reaction as he stormed onward about my deception.

"You are going to regret that, Doctor. Up until now I have been very easy on you, very easy indeed, out of respect for your loyalty to that insufferable friend of yours," Moran said dangerously, "but I now am running out of time to play fair with you. You think that those two men I had watching you were rough in their persuasion of you; you just wait and see what the next ones are like, Doctor. You will regret this, I promise you that."

I swallowed down a knot of fear, feeling a sick sensation in my stomach at his words.

"I have nothing to tell you, Moran – I received word that Holmes was in America –"

"Drop the pretence, Doctor! I can tell you are lying!" Moran snapped, "I –"

He halted as there was a pounding of feet upon the stairs, and one of his men rushed into the room, skidding to a halt in front of his master.

"Colonel! He's here! He's back – I just saw him go into the house!" he gasped, completely out of breath.

Moran's furious red face turned in his henchman's direction.

"Are you certain?" he demanded.

"Positive, Colonel. He wasn't even in disguise! Just walked up, unlocked the ruddy door and walked in, free as you please! Parker's the one what saw him first and pointed him out to me."

"Where is Parker now?"

"Still out there watchin' the house. He hasn't come out yet."

"Good. Get out there and tell Parker to go home – his job is done. He will notice if Parker's standing round gawping, and I want him to have no suspicions whatsoever that I know this. Now move out, Gordon!"

The man nodded and dashed from the room. Colonel Moran turned a curiously strange look upon me. I had been completely lost as to the conversation, but when Moran spoke, it instantly became clear to me about whom they were talking.

"Well, Doctor, you are in luck. I am not in need of forcing you to tell me of your friend's whereabouts after all. It seems he has decided to return to London."

I felt the color drain from my face, and Moran laughed at my expression.

"You are of no use to me now, Doctor – but I shall keep you alive for tonight anyway to watch my drama unfold, as a punishment for your setting me on the wrong track."

"Punishment?"

"Yes, Doctor. I'm going to kill your friend Sherlock Holmes tonight. From this very room. Your punishment is that I shall make you watch it."

* * *

**_To be continued...later today. :)_**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: VHunter07 - it _was_ inconvenient, but I posted all the same. :)**

* * *

I stared at Colonel Moran, my mind reeling from what I had just witnessed.

He had been telling the truth, then? Holmes really was alive?

And he – he was now back in London?

Why had he come back? Was it because of the Adair murder?

Of course – that had to be it! He had heard of the murder and its impossibilities, and he had of course deduced that only one gun in the world could have fired the shot that killed young Adair. And only one man in the world could be behind the sights of said gun.

But, if he had come back to London – why had he not been in disguise? Did he underestimate how dangerous Moran was? Would his magnificent brain not have thought that Moran might be watching 221b Baker Street? Why had he not disguised himself?

All this takes time to put down, but at the time in question it flashed through my mind in a matter of moments. All that was unimportant – the pertinent thing now was Moran's most recent statement.

"From this room?" I gasped, suddenly realizing I had to be on Baker Street – one of the empty houses opposite our flat, of course!

Holmes always said the most obvious hiding place is the safest – and what safer place to hide me than right under the nose of 221b?

But…the Colonel had said he was going to kill Holmes tonight, from this room!

_That air-gun!_

He was going to shoot him like he did Adair, as soon as Holmes went to a window!

The same chill of fear that had gripped my heart like a lead weight similar to when I realized three years ago that the letter from Herr Steiler was a hoax suddenly returned with full force. Holmes had no idea Moran was on to him – he would not stand a chance in the world!

Moriarty had failed to best him, and now the Professor's chief lieutenant was going to do so –

And I was absolutely powerless to stop it.

Holmes had returned from the dead, but he would be murdered before I had even seen him once.

My face must have betrayed my grief and despair, unable to hid it at long last, because Moran's face twisted into a wicked smile, his mustache twitching.

"It is your own fault for being so obstinate, Doctor. I would have been inclined to spare you had you cooperated with me."

I refused to speak, knowing my voice would be unsteady and not willing to give him that satisfaction.

I still had a lingering doubt that Holmes was actually alive and in London, merely because I would not truly and fully believe it until I saw him with my own eyes. It seemed just a bit too surreal.

But my mind was slowly forcing my heart to believe what it had already accepted as fact – Sherlock Holmes was alive.

Though if Moran were triumphant, he would not be for very long.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson, for the love of heaven! We have no time for tea!" 

"You look as if you haven't eaten in a fortnight, Mr. Holmes!"

"Perhaps I haven't," I replied distractedly, downing a cup in one gulp and heading for my bedroom, leaving that exceptionally good woman squawking in outrage behind me.

"Mr. Holmes!"

I snatched a dressing gown from my wardrobe to drape round the bust, noting absently that that left door _still_ stuck, even after three years I could remember the trouble I had getting it open every time!

"Mrs. Hudson, I do not have much time," I said seriously, motioning the fussing woman to the couch and sitting beside her, speaking earnestly.

The good lady quieted on the instant, knowing indeed how very desperate the situation was, and I began to outline my scheme to her.

I had noticed Parker right away – he had been a general messenger-boy for the Moriarty syndicate and was a thoroughly nasty character, and he was lounging about on the opposite side of the street when I first peeked round the shades in the window. He was gone now, no doubt to let his master know that I had returned to London.

His master, I fervently hoped, would take his attention from Watson and attack this new threat as soon as the darkness was sufficient to cover his activities.

"I need your help, Mrs. Hudson, and I need you to listen very carefully," I said earnestly, forcing my mind back to the matter at hand.

The lady listened quite attentively indeed as I warned her to go to the bust on her knees, for fear that her shadow might be seen – or hit by a stray shot if for some inexplicable reason Moran's aim were off. I told her what changes to make and how often to make them and then detailed what I, Mycroft, and Lestrade would be doing in the street below.

Then I set up the equipment and checked for spies outside. Nothing.

I turned to leave, having already re-applied my disguise.

"Mr. Holmes, you will be careful, won't you?" the good woman called after me as I trudged thoughtfully down the steps.

"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hudson. And you yourself as well," I replied, a faint smile crossing my face at my landlady's worried countenance.

"And you tell Dr. Watson when you find him that I'll have the nicest piece of mackerel he ever saw for a late supper for the both of you," she informed me, shooing me toward the door in the hall.

I chuckled despite the gravity of the errand I was about to embark upon. Some things did not change in three years, our worthy landlady's incessant fussing – and good cooking – being one of them.

* * *

I had closed my eyes to try to bring my near-frantic emotions under some semblance of control. The horror of the thing and my own personal complete helplessness was enough to make me want to weep. I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, to stop Moran! 

"I shall leave you alone with your thoughts now, Doctor, for I must run home and retrieve my – ahem – _walking stick_, so that I may make use of it tonight. I shall return after dark, Doctor," Moran broke into my reverie.

I opened my eyes and managed a rather pitiful glare that I believe only succeeded in making me look rather foolish, as the Colonel once more tied the gag round my mouth and then exited the room without another word, tossing a malicious glance over his shoulder at me as I sat there, completely powerless.

* * *

"You are sure your landlady will make no mistakes, Mr. Holmes?" 

"You may rely on Mrs. Hudson implicitly, Lestrade," I replied coldly, checking the revolver I had in my pocket to see that it was functioning without error.

I was back in Mycroft's rooms at Pall Mall and had removed my disguise after being certain that I had not been followed from Baker Street. Now the three of us were putting into place our final plans to lay Moran by the heels and get Watson out of his clutches.

"Sherlock, do you have all the possibilities covered?" my brother asked, buttoning his overcoat.

"Yes. Moran will either shoot from the street or one of the empty houses opposite the flat. You and I shall be downstairs in the empty house opposite 221b, and Lestrade and two of his men will be in a doorway surveying the street. What other possibilities are there?"

"I can think of none, brother, I merely wanted to ascertain that you knew exactly what you are doing," Mycroft replied, not unkindly, "you are playing for high stakes tonight."

"The highest," I said sombrely, my mind beginning to revert again to that lack of emotional control that had been so unusual and so disconcerting to me the last three days.

I sternly, almost visibly shook myself, shoving all feeling under a thick barrier of cold and precise planning. I would not fail. I could not afford to fail, not with the consequences so high if I lost.

"We should be off now, Mycroft. I wish to get into that house well before Moran might possibly take it into his head to."

"Very well, Sherlock. Are you quite clear on your instructions, Lestrade?"

"Quite, Mr. Holmes. If he's in the street, we'll nab him for sure. And if not, I'll come running as soon as I hear your whistle," the little official stated, looking rather nervous about the whole affair.

From what Mycroft had told me, the inspector had become friends of sorts with Watson over my three-year absence, and I could see in the man's eyes that he was very genuinely anxious about him.

But that was nothing compared to the worry clawing its way into my soul.

I sternly once again pulled myself back under a tight rein. This type of work left no room for sentiment. We had a job to do.

"Come along then, Mycroft."

* * *

**_To be continued...only four more chapters!_**


	17. Chapter 17

I jerked my head upright, realizing I had dozed off again – it was so unbearably hot and stuffy in here and I was very acutely feeling the lack of food and water at this point. But my discomfort was not what had awakened me – I thought I had heard footsteps below me in the house.

I cocked my head, listening intently, but then I heard nothing, no sound at all. I must have been mistaken.

But it was dark now, I could see from the flickering gas lamp through the grimy window, and Moran had to be returning soon.

I could do nothing but wait, hopelessly. I had tried after Moran left for close on to two hours to free myself but to no avail. I was going to be forced to sit here and witness Colonel Moran murder the friend I had only just learnt was even alive.

A feeling of deep black despair settled in upon me and I finally gave up the struggle. Before the night was over, Sherlock Holmes was going to die. And I was likely to follow him not long after.

And that was just all there was to the matter.

* * *

"Shhh!" 

"I cannot slip through narrow corridors as rapidly or as quietly as you, Sherlock!" my brother hissed behind me with a curse as he rammed his elbow into a wall in the old hallway.

"For heaven's sake be quite, Mycroft!"

I heard a growl and something that sounded suspiciously like an elder brotherly death threat, but my eyes were on the tiny beam of watery light ahead of us in the front room of this house's ground floor.

Within moments we were in the room, taking great pains to not show ourselves. I made Mycroft stand along the wall – he would cast rather a large shadow if he stepped into the light.

"Sherlock, I do hope you are right about this," he whispered, and I could see the intense worry in his eyes, mirroring my own anxiousness.

"So do I, brother. So do I."

* * *

It was probably just a rat. Odd how an overactive mind could conjure up sounds like that – for a moment I would have been prepared to swear that I had heard whispered voices.

Confound that man, it was dark now – why had he not returned? This uncertainty and waiting was no doubt just another of his tactics of mental torture for me.

My mind drifted over to the sitting room I assumed to be directly across from the house in which I was imprisoned, and my first wistful thoughts of wondering what Holmes was doing were replaced almost immediately by a helpless frantic worry.

Surely he would not be foolish enough to place himself in the line of fire? Surely? He had closed my consulting-room shutters back in '91 because he knew of the existence of that air-gun, so why would he be foolish enough to plant himself near a window now?

_Please, Holmes – if this is not just a horrid dream and Moran is correct in saying you are alive – please be careful!

* * *

_

"What time is it?"

"Half-past eleven, Mycroft."

"Where is he?"

"How should I know, brother?"

"You needn't be snippy, Sherlock; it is quite undignified."

I snorted derisively and kept my eyes fastened upon the silhouette up in the sitting room of 221b. Mrs. Hudson had done splendidly so far; I had not seen the vestige of a shadow from her. And she was following my instructions to the letter; I had to remember to thank the good woman profusely after this sordid business were over with.

I suddenly stiffened – the back door of the house had opened!

Mycroft glanced up at me in alarm, and I pushed him hastily back behind the door and got beside him, waiting for Moran to enter the room.

But – the steps did not come in this direction; they were climbing the stairs!

I heard Mycroft curse softly.

"He is going to do it from the second story, Sherlock," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I rather deduced that for myself, Mycroft!" I hissed quietly as the steps walked on the creaking floorboards over our heads to the room upstairs.

"Well, shall we –"

"No!" I said in an insistent whisper, "those stairs are too noisy – he would hear us, especially you, brother, before we were even halfway up!"

Mycroft looked extremely disgruntled at my unintentional jab at his weight issue, but he kept silent and let me lead, in accordance with our agreement of earlier.

I crept back to the window, Mycroft following me silently.

"As soon as we hear the window shatter, we shall have to close in quickly," I whispered. "Do you have the police whistle, Mycroft?"

"Yes."

"Good. You shall have to blow it while I dash upstairs – we cannot give him time to reload that air-gun."

"I shall follow as rapidly as my bulk allows, Sherlock."

"Very good. What is taking the man so long!"

* * *

"Well, Doctor. I hope you were able to catch a nap?" the tiger-hunter's voice was dripping with false concern, and it nauseated me nearly as much as the knowledge of why he was here. 

He had not removed the gag, knowing that I would do anything in my power to prevent him from carrying out his plan, even at the expense of my own life. I glared at him, hoping my eyes did not betray my feelings. I did not wish him to glean any more satisfaction from my plight than he was already.

Moran assembled the air-gun with an infuriating slowness, enjoying my feeble efforts as I tried once again to free myself, struggling gallantly but to no avail.

"You might as well give it up, Doctor. I have beaten you – and your friend," the man said, glancing out of the dingy window.

"Ah, yes, Holmes is more stupid than I had anticipated. He must have such a sense of false security that it has made him rather careless in three years," Moran said wickedly, grinning at me as he indicated the window across from us.

I pleaded silently with Holmes to get out of the line of fire – to move away from the confounded window! What was he thinking!

Moran casually, methodically loaded the gun and then wound the peculiar mechanism on the side; finally it snapped into place with a dull click that seemed to echo like a grim death knell in the stillness of the room.

Moran set the gun down on the dusty floor and then knelt beside the window. He opened it a crack, perhaps three inches, and then aimed the barrel of the gun out of the window ever so slightly, sighting along the stock, his mustache drooping as he concentrated.

I made another effort to free myself, accomplishing nothing but to rub my wrists raw. What could I do? I could not watch this! I had to stop him! But how?

* * *

I could feel the perspiration trickling down my neck as I waited with bated breath, listening for the telltale sounds of tinkling glass that would notify me of Moran's shot. Moments went by, and I wondered what under the sun was taking the man so long to fire? He had a perfectly clear shot from up there! 

"Sherlock, why is he taking so long?" my brother whispered.

"I have no idea, Mycroft, but we can do nothing – he will hear us. We have to wait."

I nervously dashed away beads of perspiration with a rather unsteady hand. This was it – the next ten minutes meant life or death to the one man in the world I could actually call a friend.

What if something went wrong? What if –

I had to stop thinking about it or I should go mad.

I took a long shaky breath, and Mycroft silently handed me his enormous pocket handkerchief, which I used with eagerness. I was so very, very nervous.

Ten minutes and I would know.

* * *

**_Ooh, sorry for the cliffhanger yet again - but don't kill me, because the next one is the one everybody's been waiting for! Til then.._******


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Wow, people really got worked up over that last cliffhanger, didn't they? Anyhow - here it is, the climax! On with the melodrama!**

* * *

"The devil take the man!" I fumed in a furious whisper, "what is he doing up there!" 

Mycroft fidgeted uneasily beside me and glanced up at the window of 221b – the silhouette on the blind had moved slightly. Mrs. Hudson was performing her task with admirable ability, and I was rather proud of the good lady.

But my thoughts were not across the street but upstairs. What in heaven's name was that man doing?

* * *

My mind was racing frantically as Moran withdrew the gun from the window, squinting down the barrel and inspecting it to make sure it was fully prepared for use. He glanced at my horrified face and smiled, a wicked leering grin. 

"You should have cooperated with me, Doctor!" he said, gesturing to the window across from us, "then I would not have made you watch this. But you insisted upon being obstinate."

I was unable to make any reply through that confounded gag, and I struggled and twisted once again to free myself. I could not let him shoot! Holmes had only just returned, in my mind, back from the dead – I could not lose him again!

But how could I prevent it? I could not shout and spoil his aim, I could not move at all; my ankles were tied to the cross-rung of the chair and I could not even get a foot on the floor to attempt to tip my chair over to try and startle him as he shot.

I was completely and absolutely helpless. I was going to have to watch this man kill my dearest friend – whom I had only just learnt was not really dead as I had thought for three years.

I could do nothing.

* * *

"Sherlock, stop fidgeting!" 

"I cannot help it, Mycroft!"

"You are moving round – Moran might hear you."

"Well something is going on up there – I can hear a voice."

"Perhaps criminal masterminds like to talk to themselves."

"Rubbish. Something isn't right, Mycroft."

"Well we can do nothing until he shoots that gun off, so do curb your impatience and listen!"

I sighed nervously, running a finger round my collar which seemed to be absolutely choking me. What was transpiring upstairs?

* * *

I felt my eyes widen as Moran sighted the gun out of the window again – for a moment his profile was outlined in perfect stillness as he peered narrowly along the sights of that unique air-gun. 

My heart was pounding, and I could feel a horrible buzzing in my ears as he lined up his shot, glancing off to the side once at the street below, and then returning to the weapon.

I slumped back in my chair, completely exhausted, knowing that I was utterly helpless. I was going to have to watch this, and the thought made me absolutely sick.

* * *

"He's got just five more minutes, and I am going up those stairs. Air-gun or no air-gun," I growled, staring at the silhouette on the blind until my eyes could trace its stark outline against my lids when I closed them. 

Mycroft glanced nervously at his watch, his other enormous hand clenched around the police-whistle, fingering its shape with growing unease.

* * *

Colonel Moran took one more look at me before turning his attention back to the gun in his hands, poking the tip of it just barely out of the cracked window, his face twisted in an almost maniacal grin of absolute glee. 

"Three years, I've been waiting to do this, Holmes," he addressed the window, where I assumed he had the shadow on the blinds in his sights at last.

I swallowed hard, my breathing coming far too quickly.

_Holmes for the love of heaven step away from the window! Are you mad? Get away from it! _

"Two minutes."

"Do not do anything stupid, Sherlock," my brother snapped, his patience wearing very thin indeed with the waiting and the worry.

I glanced once more at the window of 221b and then took a long deep breath, closing my eyes.

* * *

Moran finally got himself into a comfortable position and aimed the gun for the final time, taking one last cursory glance at me to see that I was powerless to do anything to distract him. 

And then his finger tightened on the trigger.

I will freely admit I shut my eyes tightly, unable to watch the deed even though I could not see the figure across the street.

And as I heard the small zinging noise as the bullet left the chamber and then tinkling glass as the window across the street shattered, I will be the first to admit I felt tears stinging the backs of my closed eyes.

He had done it. And I had been completely unable to prevent him.

* * *

"Mycroft!" 

I had just snapped fully alert with the sound of breaking glass from across the street. I sprinted for the door, trusting my brother to do what he was supposed to, and took the rickety stairs three at a time, nearly breaking a shin bone in my haste.

I heard below me the shrill blast of my brother's police whistle as I reached the floor and sprinted toward the front room. In about a second and a half I had reached the wide-open door and stopped short with a gasp, staring – and completely forgetting about the gun in my pocket because of it.

Because staring right back at me, giving a muffled cry of surprise with eyes wide in either shock or fright, was the very man I had come back to London to rescue.

_Watson had been up here the whole time?_

For a moment we were like two stone statues, gaping at each other without even breathing.

Then suddenly his eyes widened as they shot up over my head, and instinctively I threw myself to the ground and rolled just as the heavy stock of a gun came crashing down on the floor where I had been standing.

In a matter of seconds I had sprung back to my feet and only just in time to dodge a vicious swing from Colonel Moran. The fellow's face was twisted with absolute hatred as he jabbed viciously at me with the gun.

I grabbed the end of it and, planting my feet firmly, used leverage to twist it out of his hands and send him sprawling. But he was spryer than I had thought, and in an instant he had grabbed my ankles and yanked my feet out from under me, sending the air-gun flying across the room. In another instant we were borh rolling on the floor, trying to gain the upper hand. I tried to retrieve the pistol from my pocket and was unable to do so in the melee.

I realized then that I had far underestimated the power of this old tiger-hunter – he had his hands round my throat, choking off my oxygen supply…

…I couldn't breathe, my vision was darkening...I was choking…

And then suddenly the pressure was released and I gasped in a lungful of good air, shaking my head clear with a hoarse cough as I rolled over to take stock of the situation.

Mycroft was practically sitting on Moran, who seemed to be only struggling feebly, moaning under my brother's enormous dead weight. Had the situation not been so absolutely ghastly I should have laughed.

But I did not. It had been too close. Far too close.

Lestrade came pounding up the stairs, shouting for his men to take Moran, and I slowly rose to my feet and turned to look at Watson. He was staring at me, eyes wide, like a man who sees hallucinations; and little wonder after what he had been through, not just in these three days.

Lestrade moved behind him to untie his hands as I knelt in front of him and gently removed the gag.

He said not a word, only stared disbelievingly at me as Lestrade freed his hands and started on his feet, looking at me as if he were not really seeing me.

"I – I am so sorry, my dear Watson," I whispered at last, not knowing what else to say.

I noticed now that he was trembling all over, from shock probably; and I was preparing to say something else when, to my horror, he just simply collapsed forward into my arms in a dead faint.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Thanks so much to all you who told me you liked how I kept some of the Canonical details - my feeble homage to Sir Arthur. Now, on with the drama.**

* * *

"_Watson_!" 

"Mr. Holmes! What –"

I had been nearly bowled over by my friend's dead weight as he toppled off the chair into my arms, and I had only just kept both of us from crashing heavily to the floor.

"What happened, Sherlock?" my brother demanded from across the room.

"He – he fainted, I think, Mycroft," I said, wishing to heaven my voice would hold steady as I gently put my poor friend on the ground, "shock, I suppose."

"You are not even joking, Mr. Holmes – and _such_ a shock," Lestrade muttered, taking off his coat and folding it to place under Watson's head.

Moran had snorted loudly in amusement at the whole escapade, held fast in the grip of two stalwart constables. I whirled to face the man, my absolute hatred fueling my words with a menace I had only seldom felt before.

"You told him, didn't you?" I snapped, walking up to Moran and facing him, my livid face only a few inches from his. "You _told_ him what happened at the Falls!"

Moran looked at me curiously, genuine surprise visible on his face.

"You mean, Holmes, that he was telling me the truth at first? He _really_ did not know you were alive?"

My face blanched.

"I had told him nothing, for his own protection," I said shakily, with the sudden realization that Watson had heard the whole tale – and not from my lips, but from this man's.

"Well, I'll be hanged. And here I thought he was lying to me all along," the old tiger-hunter said with a wicked gleam in his yellow eyes, piercing through me as if to read my soul. "I assumed he was merely being obstinate. What a pity – I was rather rough with him because of his insistence of ignorance."

I sprang for the man, a dark rage flooding over me and blinding me to all else but that snarling, evil face in front of me – and only realized several seconds after I found myself restrained that my brother was holding me in a firm grip, giving me a good shake and telling me to stop acting like a fool.

I was trembling all over with anger and hatred, and I suddenly realized I had been completely out of control. I forcibly restrained my anger and took a long breath, regaining my composure with an effort.

"I – you can let go of me now, brother," I said thinly, at last reining in my fury.

Mycroft without question released my arms, and I glared at the old shikari in a cold, calculating anger.

"You are a lucky man, Colonel, that my brother was more in control than I just now," I spat with contempt.

The old shikari's eyes gleamed mockingly.

"You are the very devil himself, Holmes. I suppose you have a decoy up there in the window? I confess I never suspected until it didn't move after I fired. It certainly took you long enough to get here after the Adair murder, Holmes. I fully expected you the night of the inquest."

I glared at the man.

"It would have been much easier on me and on your friend had I known you were returning so late – I would not have had to try to hurry the Doctor along in his confession of your whereabouts," the man went on with a leer, "he was quite stubborn – I never dreamt he was telling the truth in that he had no idea where you were. What kind of a friend allows another man to think he is dead for three years, Holmes?"

My heart seemed to drop with that last statement, and I swallowed hard, knowing in my heart that the man was right. I had miscalculated, thinking that silence was the only thing that would protect Watson.

How wrong I had been.

"Mr. Holmes!"

I whirled round to see Lestrade beckoning to me – Watson must be returning to consciousness, poor fellow.

"Get him out of here before I kill him, Constables," I snapped a furious order to the bobbies holding the old hunter.

Moran shouted some scathing threat of future vengeance that I paid no heed to as I quickly closed the distance of the room and fell on my knees beside my dear friend.

"He isn't badly hurt at least, Holmes; his pulse is weak but steady. But I think he's been here the whole time – probably no food or water too," Lestrade growled, his thin face pinched with an angry worry.

I attempted to close my vision to the marks left by Moran's 'persuasion' to get my friend to reveal information he did not even possess, and instead bent over him and gripped one icy hand between both of my shaking ones as Lestrade tried to force a little brandy past his lips.

To my intense relief, he immediately spluttered and choked a little, and his hand clenched convulsively. I returned the grip firmly and a moment later his eyes opened.

For a few seconds they were vacant and unfocused, and then I saw sudden and complete recognition flood his face, and he sat bolt upright with a start before wincing and slumping against the wall behind him, staring at me once again, clinging to my grip as a drowning man fastens onto a life-preserver.

"Holmes? Is it – is it really you?"

His voice was hoarse from ill-treatment and disbelief but it was the same warm one I remembered from three years gone by – how long ago it seemed since I had heard it!

He looked absolutely afraid, frightened half out of his wits by my appearance, and I gently grasped his other hand.

"Watson – I am so incredibly sorry," I said shakily.

Lestrade had gotten up discreetly and was now talking to my brother, leaving us there on the wooden floor.

"Is it – it's really true, then? What Moran said was true?" he gasped, his eyes still filled with incredulity.

I sighed, wishing with all my might that I had been the one to tell him and possibly soften the blow.

"Yes," I replied softly, for I knew not what else to say.

Watson was still shaking all over, and I was very worried that he was going into shock. I let go of his hands and took Lestrade's coat – I had not been wearing one – and draped it over his shaking shoulders, holding them in a firm grip of reassurance.

He continued to look at me as if he were afraid he would blink and I would vanish.

"You – you're alive, you really are," he said unsteadily, still stunned by the rapidity of the thing.

"Yes, my dear fellow. I promise you, you are not seeing a spirit," I reassured him.

"But – but the air-gun, the sitting room window – you were there, I watched him shoot!"

"Can you stand, Watson?"

"I - am a little numb," he admitted ashamedly, "and rather weak – haven't eaten since Saturday morning."

"_What_?"

I should have killed Moran when I had the chance.

I barely controlled my rage and helped Watson to his feet. He stumbled and nearly fell, but I caught him and held him upright as he got his bearings.

"I truly am sorry, Watson – I had no idea you were up here," I said, filled with remorse, "I should never have purposely shocked you like that."

"I have to admit, you were the last person I was expecting to see come barreling through that doorway," he said shakily, a small smile coming back over his face.

The sight thrilled me, as did his attempt at his old humour.

"It was rather a good thing that you warned me about Moran – I take it he heard my shout from downstairs and hid behind the door?"

"Yes," Watson replied tiredly and without elaborating, leaning heavily into me.

I gestured toward the window, and he looked at me a little curiously before walking over to it with me.

"Good heavens!"

"Rather good, don't you think?"

"I would be prepared to swear it was you," he said, a faint light of admiration coming into his haunted eyes.

I chuckled.

"Well, it is rather a good thing that Moran thought so as well, then, eh?"

"Rather," he agreed with another shiver, though the room was exceedingly warm and stifling.

I tightened the supporting arm I held round him and felt the tremoring start to cease.

And then I realized with a little embarrassment that my brother and Lestrade were shuffling their feet awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt us but obviously wishing to leave the place. Watson noticed too, and his face flushed slightly.

"Lestrade – I was on my way to see you when I was captured," he said with a small smile.

"I am dreadfully sorry, Doctor – I did not even realize something was amiss until Mr. Mycroft Holmes here told me to try and locate you last Saturday," the little official replied nervously, giving my friend a worried look.

'There was nothing for it, Lestrade – Moran had covered his tracks well. It was my own fault for not realizing those men I kept seeing behind me were really following me," he sighed, leaning on my arm and closing his eyes for a moment.

He had to be dreadfully weak from dehydration, starvation, and shock, and I determined to lose no time in adjourning this meeting.

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?" he asked quietly, opening his eyes.

"Our estimable landlady told me in no uncertain terms to inform you when I found you that she will have, and I quote, 'the nicest piece of mackerel you ever saw' waiting for us across the street, if – if you are agreeable," I said slowly, wondering if he actually wanted to go over there or if he would wish to be left alone.

But I need not have worried – my Watson was ever the embodiment of forgiveness, and three years had not done anything to change that wondrous fact.

"I doubt you could detach me from your side now if you tried to, Holmes," he said, a little of that old mischievous twinkle returning to fill his haunted eyes.

I felt my whole face light up with an enormously ridiculous and childish grin, and my brother chuckled softly at the sight and motioned Lestrade to follow him out into the corridor.

And the four of us left that empty house for a much more welcoming one across the street.

* * *

**_To be concluded at last...reviews are very much appreciated!_**


	20. Chapter 20

"Well, I certainly am glad that is over with, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, shaking my hand in the hall of my flat.

"You and I both, Lestrade," I replied tiredly.

"I shall have to have a statement from the Doctor, of course," the man said, "but it most definitely can be made at his convenience, when he is feeling better."

"Thank you, Lestrade. I think we rather need a bit of time."

"It really has been a pleasure to work with you again, sir, and I am deucedly glad to see you alive and back in London," the official added as he opened the door to leave with the awaiting police wagon.

"Thank you, Inspector. And somewhat to my surprise, I have to say that the pleasure has been mutual," I replied with a smile, "good night."

"Good night, Mr. Holmes. And Mr. Holmes," Lestrade added with a grin, nodding to my brother and exiting the flat with a wave.

When he had left I slumped against the wall exhaustedly.

"You had best be getting upstairs, brother – it is not going to take the Doctor very long to change and shave and he shall be needing you in a few minutes, I rather think," Mycroft said quietly.

I nodded, looking wearily up at my brother.

"Thank you for watching out for him, Mycroft," I said at last with some discomfort; I still was completely not used to baring my soul in any such manner as I had tonight, "I would not have made it back in time otherwise. As it was, I very nearly did not."

"You made a grievous error in not trusting him as well as I to know you were alive, Sherlock," my brother said gently. I hung my head at the kind but firm rebuke.

"I know it."

"I believe you do. Now get up those stairs, Sherlock. You have talked long enough to me – you need to have a serious talk with him."

I nodded again and turned toward the stairs.

"And Sherlock."

"Yes, Mycroft?" I looked back at him, pausing with my hand on the railing.

My brother's worried face had creased into a wide smile.

"Welcome back, brother," he said simply, motioning me imperiously on up the stairs.

I shot him a small smile and mounted the rest of the steps to the sitting room, peeking in apprehensively. But my friend had not yet entered.

I lit up my oldest and most comforting pipe before realizing the tobacco was of course three years old – and hastily choking and discarding the article, shaking my head with an exclamation of disgust.

"Perhaps a cigarette would be better than ancient tobacco?" I heard a familiar amused voice behind me.

"Rather," I agreed with a rueful smile, still trying to cough the stale taste out of my throat.

Watson stepped into the room, extending a silver cigarette case to me, and for the first time in the light I could see what Moran's men had done to him.

The sight of the discoloured bruises on his face and his pale, gaunt features that bespoke of two horrible nights of agony with no food or water all turned my stomach into knots, and I reached for the proffered cigarette with a rather unsteady hand.

Then I halted, staring at the case, and glanced back up at Watson.

"Yes, I thought you might recognize it."

"You kept it?"

"On my person at all times. Well go on," he said, handing the case to me. I swallowed and took out a cigarette, briefly tracing the familiar design on it before handing it back to him.

He stuffed it into his pocket and started to seat himself in his old chair – and suddenly bit back a moan of pain.

"What did he do to you?" I demanded furiously.

He slumped down in the chair with a weary sigh.

"Nothing serious, Holmes. Although I don't _ever_ want to hear you say again that I cannot lie convincingly!"

His words held a jest, but his eyes were deadly serious.

I sat opposite him, that cloud of guilt still hovering over my mind. Both Moran and Mycroft had pointed out to me the error in my thinking. I had to address this issue now, before we started any long explanations, and while I still had the nerve.

Watson had closed his eyes and leant back in the chair, obviously still rather weakened by his condition even after three cups of tea that Mrs. Hudson had had waiting on us. She had promised that dinner would be up shortly and I had to get this off my mind while I still had the nerve to admit to my own mistakes.

"Watson?"

His eyes opened wearily. "Yes?"

"I – I need to tell you something," I said nervously, fidgeting with the cigarette in my fingers and finally tossing it into the grate in frustration.

"Well?"

"I am – I am so dreadfully sorry," I whispered, averting my gaze.

"You have already said that more than once, Holmes."

"Not just about not getting here sooner, Watson, about deceiving you for three years!"

There. I finally had blurted it out, afraid I was going to lose my nerve, and now I could not seem to stop.

"I hope you had a good reason," I heard him say quietly.

"I thought I did, Watson! I kept you in the dark so that Moran would leave you alone! If this Adair thing had never come up, he never would have touched you – but that is the reason I didn't tell you. I – I could not stand allowing anything to happen to you because of your association with me. I only lied to you to protect you, because I knew this is what would have happened had Moran suspected you knew the truth!"

I had finished that outburst – where had it all come from? – in rather more of an emotional tone than I had wished for. This day had been an emotional upheaval for me and the feelings were not only unusual but rather disconcerting.

"Holmes."

I glanced up at him, and I was rather surprised to see an utter lack of anger in his eyes – not even irritation.

"I said it was all forgiven – although I may not entirely agree with your reasoning, I still appreciate that you were trying to keep me safe," he said gently.

"Lot of good it did, though," I said with a deep sense of guilt.

"Neither of us had a way of knowing, Holmes."

"But I should have! Mycroft telegraphed me the day after Adair's death, and I thought the matter could wait a few days – I did not even get hold of details until after the inquest!" I cried.

Now that I had opened the doors to my guilt, the words would not stop. I flung myself out of my chair and began to pace up and down.

"I was slow, and stupid – and I missed the Channel boat on Saturday evening! I could have spared you all that – that torture at the hands of that madman if I had only been here! And to think that I was downstairs in that house the entire time you were upstairs alone with that scoundrel! He could have killed you, Watson, and _I never would have even heard it_!" I stopped as my voice cracked – how I hated showing weakness in such a manner.

"Holmes."

I heard the calm voice behind me as Watson slowly got up and moved over to stand beside me at the window.

"You cannot blame yourself, old chap. Moran grabbed me because I knew too much about Adair, not because of you. He was going to kill me, I have no doubts about that. He just decided to take advantage of the opportunity to find out where you were – there was nothing you could have done about it, even had you been in London at the time."

Watson's voice was calm and soothing as ever, but I was not to be deterred.

"I still –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Holmes!"

I turned, startled, at the unaccustomed vehemence in his tone as he almost snapped the words out. He was standing beside me with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking up at me with that odd expression on his face that so often puzzled me, for I could not quite place that elusive emotion which was foreign to my nature.

"Do you not understand, Holmes?"

"Understand what?" I asked hesitantly, very much confused.

"Do you not understand, Holmes, that it was very much worth three days of discomfort to have this moment, to have you back again? Do you know how much _more_ I would have gladly paid to have you standing here right now?" he asked simply.

I felt my forehead wrinkle with more confusion. I never would understand these matters of the heart fully.

"I would do it again – I am glad it happened. And therefore, there is no need to speak of the past."

"But –"

"You know, three years have not changed your innate obstinacy?"

"Or your pawky humor, my dear Watson."

We both laughed at that, and I knew that all had been indeed forgiven by my remarkable friend. I was not going to just let the matter drop, but for now I was more than glad to put away the horrors of the last few days and concentrate on something less painful.

"That thing is really atrocious, you know that?" Watson changed the subject, indicating my wax likeness.

"It is not!"

"It most certainly is! I certainly hope you do not plan to leave it sitting about to frighten off clients in the future," he returned mischievously, glancing at me.

I chuckled. "I thought it was rather good," I said, pretending to be miffed.

"Ugh."

"You have the most expressive non-verbal utterances, Watson."

"Yes. Write yourself a monograph upon the subject, why don't you."

"Perhaps I will," I said thoughtfully, "you know it could be a rather fascinating study…"

"Oh, dear heaven. You really have _not_ changed in three years," Watson snorted.

I snickered.

"Would you have it any other way, my dear fellow?"

He smiled, the teasing manner gone.

"No. No, not at all."

"That's what I thought."

"Although you could do with a change from that arrogant sarcasm."

"What?"

"Go on, try it – say something that is not abrasive."

"Oh, really, Watson!"

"There, you see?"

"See what?"

"You can't say three words that are pleasant."

"I can so!"

"Prove it then."

My brow furrowed.

"Well…"

"Mmhm. That's what I thought."

Our good landlady interrupted this rather juvenile discussion with the arrival of the promised mackerel, and within ten minutes I was very much overjoyed to see Watson eating with a good appetite.

"Do not make yourself ill, Watson," I warned him, knowing the effect a hearty meal could have on someone who had been starved for two days.

He snorted.

"Yes, Doctor," he replied dryly.

I grinned at his annoyance and went back to my fish.

We finished the meal in a comfortable silence for the most part. We would have to discuss the events preceding the night's occurrence as well as the case itself; there were many unresolved issues, but neither of us felt like doing so at the present moment.

And so after dinner, Watson stretched himself out on the couch, wincing as injuries I evidently could not see protested the movement, and I leaned against the mantelpiece. I stared for several minutes into the photograph of the Reichenbach Falls that hung there and realized with a slight shiver the foreshadowing irony of it.

Then my gaze went back to Watson – was he asleep? His eyes were closed and his head turned away from the bruised side on the narrow couch. I swallowed hard at the knowledge that I had very nearly lost him because of my own deception and my slowness in returning to London.

"Watson? Are you asleep?"

"Not yet, but nearly – do you mind?"

"No, no, of course not, old fellow."

He opened one eye and looked at me, no doubt noticing my nervousness – I was methodically rearranging everything within reach of my grasping fingers on the mantel.

"Well?"

"Well what, Watson?"

"Well what were you going to say before you lost your nerve?"

I glared at him – he knew me too well, even after three years.

"I was – just going to show you I could say something non-sarcastic, that is all," I informed him.

"Well go ahead, dazzle me," he smirked, closing his eyes again.

I shoved a letter opener behind my gold spyglass and toyed with the item for a moment before placing it back on the mantel and picking up a three-year old letter I had stuffed behind the mirror.

"I missed you."

The eye opened again halfway.

"More than I missed Mycroft."

Both eyes flew open, wide open, at that remark.

I glanced at him in the mantel mirror and saw a slow, warm smile spread over his face, finally erasing the better portion of the night's horrific events from his haggard features. Then he settled back comfortably on the couch and put his hands behind his head, his face relaxing.

"I knew you could do it if you tried," he said mischievously before closing his eyes once more, "it wasn't that hard, now was it?"

"Hmph."

"Be sure you put _that_ 'non-verbal utterance' in your monograph," he murmured, already half-asleep.

And I laughed softly, grinning fondly at him when he could not see me; knowing that, despite the rough days that lay ahead, I had finally come home at last. The final link had just fallen – literally, considering his sprawled position on the couch – neatly into place in my heart and mind. I was home, for good now.

And neither Moran nor anyone else could ever change that inescapable conclusion.

After all, it _was_ rather elementary.

* * *

**_Ta-da! Finis! And all that! Please review!_**


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